


Omertà

by parkjinyoungs



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-20 20:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkjinyoungs/pseuds/parkjinyoungs
Summary: Mama had once told him that nothing weighs on the mind more than a secret.Returning home after ten years of hiding in Los Angeles, Mark attempts to salvage the family business, digging up its dirty secrets in the process and facing the ghosts of his past.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> So this is the fic i've been working on for just over a year now, born from one of my many viewings of my favourite film ever The Godfather. It goes without saying that The Godfather heavily influences this work and I highly recommend that if you haven't watched it yet, you drop this fic and go watch it right now. 
> 
> To be explicitly clear, this will be violent and deal with heavy themes so here's a pre-warning but I'll also include specific warnings at the start of each chapter. The characters use a lot of Mafiosi slang in this fic (which is Italian yes I know just go with it this is fiction) so I'll leave definitions in the end notes too. But, if you have any questions, please do ask! 
> 
> To conclude, thank you for taking your time to read, I hope you enjoy and any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

The tap drip, drip, dripped.

Small crowds of people had already arrived in the reception room and poured out into the backyard. Thankfully, the bathroom door muted the noise. Mark knew he couldn’t hide for much longer; guests he hadn’t seen in years or even met yet would be clamouring to see him. His mother would probably find him and drag him out by his ear before that. Despite what felt like the whole world waiting for him, he continued to stand at the sink, staring into the mirror to try and find whatever in him was needed to get through the day.

His tie needed adjusting again. He’d never been able to get the stupid piece of fabric right, knotting the wrong way around or tying too short or too long. Ties had always symbolised manhood to Mark; the coming of age from child to adult, from school to the workplace. The introductory cloth for the real world. Ties meant his father. He had always appeared in Mark’s bedroom doorway in the evening, usually around 7 o’clock after all of his meetings had finished, and had just stood there, smiling at Mark colouring or reading whilst he would tug at the knot of his necktie. A sign that the day had ended; that Richard was no longer the boss, the Don… he was just Mark’s dad.

Mark wrenched the cold water tap on, the ancient pipes groaning as he splashed his face sharply and purposefully. He needed to look alive, look sharp; the sharks were circling outside for him. There was no time out there to mourn, to cry, to reminisce on good times long ago. He only had now, in the downstairs bathroom of his parents’ house, a pocket of time where he could break the mask he had to prepare for today. And he couldn’t bring a single tear to his eye. What was there to cry about? He’d lost his father when he’d left ten years ago; he’d mourned their relationship, spent his tears over countless nights in Los Angeles, alone in his dingy apartment with practically nothing to his name. A funeral couldn’t change any of that; this day was for everyone else but him.

Shaking away stray water droplets running down his face, Mark continued to gaze at his reflection, his grip tight against the chilly bite of the porcelain sink. He glanced over his tousled brown hair and rubbed at his recently shaved jaw before, once again, analysing his stark black, crisp suit and tie that just wouldn’t fucking sit right. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go out there and shake hands with his father’s men, his… _associates._ Family, he should be calling them by now, but they didn’t feel like it. Definitely not by blood. But by something… more.

A fierce hand hammered on the bathroom door. “Mark! Bubba, guests are already here, you should be greeting them!”

Mark groaned like he was sixteen years old again and being ordered to wash the dishes. Dabbing a towel lightly against his still slightly damp face, he took a deep breath, low from within his gut, and cleared his face of the past few minutes’ thoughts as if wiping a slate clean.

“I’m coming, Mama, just needed to freshen up.”

Luckily, he pulled the door shut behind him after leaving the bathroom as the sheer force of his five-feet two mother collided into him. Despite clothed in all black, his mother radiated colour; the rosy pink of her cheeks, the glistening silver of her hair, the sparkling blue of the sapphire stone inset in her engagement ring that she still loved to wear. Her presence was like an embrace; her lemon and sugar scent that seemed to permanently follow her from the kitchen surrounded him like the warmest of arms.

“Oh, my baby boy, look at you! So smart in your suit.” She cooed at him, smoothing her well-worn hands over his jacket, ironing out any creases, before narrowing her eyes. “But that tie…”

Of course, the knot was pulled apart and swiftly corrected, her nifty hands flipping over and over in circles just like she had done for her husband every morning for nearly 45 years.

Mark pressed a kiss to her cheek, short and affectionate. “Mama, you’re a pro.”

“And don’t you know it.” she winked, cupping her son’s cheeks in her hands before her face dimmed.

“They’re all outside for you, Mark.”

His body stilled to motionlessness, the mask reattaching that he hadn’t even noticed had fallen. He wasn’t his Mama’s little boy anymore; he couldn’t stand here and let her flatten his tie and squeeze his cheeks. It wasn’t his first day of school, and yet, he felt exactly the same as he did that day all those years ago. A boy in a uniform too big for him surrounded by people who could eat him alive.

“Then I’d better head out there. Save me one of your cinnamon rolls, you know they’re my favourite.” He kissed her on the cheek again, more out of habit than anything else, and left her in the hallway, making his way to the backyard.

In his community, a funeral was still a celebration, and celebration meant party by the looks of the backyard. White canopies stretched over the funeralgoers, protecting them from a surprise shower, whilst table upon table piled with food, courtesy of Mama, lined the cobblestone paving. Mark would never call his parents extravagant or, dare he say it, excessive, but, the backyard was, by no means, an understatement. Pine and elm trees encircled the land from the back of the house right down to the pond at the bottom with the odd perfectly shaped hedge sprinkled in between. Mama’s garden, full to the brim and bursting with various flowers, fruits and vegetables, was her pride and glory and the recipient of many a compliment from guests. Even still, her honeysuckle flowers filled the air with the sweet, cloying scent Mark remembered from when he was a boy, although slightly muted by the thick amount of cigarette smoke clogging his lungs. It made him want to loosen his tie but he’d get a whack across the head from Mama if he even fiddled with it.

The land was large enough to fit an enormous number of tables with every seat occupied which did no favours for Mark’s nerves. A backyard saturated with the voices of strangers. Most of the faces he didn’t recognise; his blood family only made up a small portion of the guests, an auntie here and a cousin there. Everyone else knew his father through his work. They were the _other_ families. 

Standing under the patio awning, Mark picked up a glass of champagne on offer atop the wooden table beside him and took a sip, letting the fizz settle in his stomach and the nectar heat his insides like molten lava. He could feel eyes on him; without a doubt, almost everyone in the backyard had most likely turned to watch him like hawks, waiting for whatever move he was going to make next and gauge when they should strike.

 _They can watch all they like_ , Mark thought heatedly. _I’ll leave them slavering like dogs._

“It’s been a while, brother.”

Now there’s a voice that certainly wasn’t a stranger to Mark.

Turning around, Mark couldn’t help but smile. “Jackson Wang. There’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Jackson grinned from ear to ear, blonde hair fluttering in the breeze. He stood at the same height as Mark now; after years of being the tallest, Mark could finally look into Jackson’s eyes, still glinting with a mischievousness he reined in around others but that Mark was all too familiar with. Still broad-shouldered under his black suit jacket and thighs stretching his trouser pants, he didn’t look a day changed and yet, at the same time, like a completely different person.

If they were anywhere else, the two friends would have rushed at each other, roughhoused like the silly kids they were. It had been so long and Jackson was one of the handful of people he had truly missed from home. But that was years ago and they certainly weren’t children anymore. So, instead, they wrapped their arms around each other, hands smacking each other on the back with enough force to say what they couldn’t right now.

“You look older. Rougher. More ragged around the edges than I remember.” Jackson noted with a tone light enough to betray what Jackson really meant.

Mark clapped Jackson on the shoulder, gripping him tightly. “A lot has happened.”

He didn’t know how four words could sum up years of distance; broken connections, frayed family ties and lost time. But it would have to do. He didn’t know how else to say it.

“And there’s a lot more to come, my friend.”

Jackson returned the clap on the shoulder, a show of solidarity with his brother, not by blood, but by choice. Mark realised in that moment that time hadn’t been too kind to Jackson either. There was an intensity to him, a severity, that didn’t feel entirely friendly anymore. It was sharp, like the tip of a thorn, like the edge of his grin; one wrong move and you’d get pricked.

“I won’t hold you up, there’s plenty more hands you’ll need to shake but, if it’s not too much trouble, we could meet later tonight?” Jackson asked, already grabbing a champagne flute and moving to blend into the crowd.

Mark nodded and pointed at the window adjacent to the patio door. “Come find me in the office when tonight dies down.”

“ _Your_ office.” Jackson corrected shrewdly before disappearing into the crowd with a roguish wink and raise of his glass.

Mark remained at the champagne table, mulling over Jackson’s departing comment. Although joking in manner, the implication was clear; what had been his father’s was now his. The office, the whole house itself and, most importantly, the family business.

Obviously, as the eldest, and the only, son, it was going to undoubtedly be handed to Mark. However, back in his tiny apartment in L.A., Mark wouldn’t have wished for anything less. Nonetheless, he knew, as soon as he’d picked up the phone and his mother’s tearful voice had begged him to come home, that he would have no other choice.

_“My baby boy, you know! You know what they will do to us! They’ll take everything, Bubba, the house, the businesses, all that we have! Think of your sister, Bubba! Liv is having a baby, my baby grandchild! We can’t lose our home, Bubba, this is Papa’s home! Please come home, Bubba, we need you!”_

He shook his head, his mother’s sobs floating away on the wind. No matter how much his instincts fought for him to buy the first flight back to L.A., he’d made his bed and had to lie in it. No apartment waited for him, no job needed him back. Mark in L.A. had been erased; washed away by the tide that had always been coming for him. There was no way his mother was going to be able to carry the family alone; she would never survive in her husband’s world. His sister wasn’t young but she was vulnerable and an all too easy target. There really was no one else; no one who could do this but him.

Watching a group of children play amongst his mother’s lilacs, a memory formed vaguely in Mark’s mind, floating around his consciousness but not close enough to touch, to realise. His mother, watering the lilacs with a whistle too painfully content for Mark to reminisce on, and Mark by her side, bursting through her tomato vines with a yell, too absorbed in his imaginary game to realise how loud he was. And, lastly, his father; stoic, impassive, an impenetrable figure shadowed in the patio doorway, watching Mark from afar. Mark had glanced up, a call to play on the tip of his tongue, when a man in a suit had appeared in the doorway next to his father, whispering in his ear. And with that whisper, his father had disappeared, like so many times before.

Mark remembered asking his father later who the man had been. His father had replied “That was Frank, kiddo. My cleaner.”

Mark was glad he’d never asked what Frank cleaned up.

A man began to approach Mark from one of the nearby tables. He was a large, burly man, standing at an intimidating height with wide, hulking shoulders and a heavy-set, square jaw whilst exuding wealth at the same time. His suit had to have cost a good fortune whilst the swept back, greying hair and cashmere handkerchief in his suit pocket spoke of old class and money. Tables fell to a hush as he passed and Mark knew this was a respect earned over years; decades of power, authority and fear ingrained in any who were near him.

Arriving in front of Mark, the man offered his hand out and his mouth tilted up into the barest of smiles. “You look just like old Richard, my boy. Although, you’re not a boy anymore, are you?”

Mark shook the man’s hand and let himself grin politely, already feeling slightly undermined in his own home. “No, definitely not a boy anymore. Thank you for coming, Sottocapo Wang, I very much appreciate it.”

“Please,” Jackson’s father began with a good-natured smile, understanding that the two of them had attracted the attention of the surrounding tables, “call me Vincent, son. Your father and I go way back, there’s no need for formalities between us.”

Mark smiled cordially at the offer but, needless to say, no one in their right mind would accept it. Even if he had been away for ten years, Mark still remembered that not using formalities with a boss, or underboss, was incredibly offensive and punishable in some scenarios, no matter how long he had known the man or whether he had been long friends with his father. Vincent Wang was a Sottocapo, a family underboss, and if Mark began his reputation with rumours of disrespect, especially towards his father’s own underboss, it would only continue to go downhill from there. Mark couldn’t tell if Vincent Wang was trying to trick him or if his offer was genuine but he definitely wasn’t going to take the risk of finding out.

“I appreciate that, Sottocapo Wang.” Mark responded before sipping at his champagne, aiming for composure, ease and confidence. He didn’t expect to be tested this quickly; to have his father’s underboss approach him this soon into his return but he had guessed that it would happen eventually. He had lain awake in his apartment in L.A., stomach roiling in fear of returning to Seoul, at what would be waiting for him. He’d half-thought that he wouldn’t have made it out of Seoul Airport without a bullet in his head. Vincent Wang must’ve expected the family business to fall in his lap, not for Mark to come walking through the door. But he served under Mark’s father and Mark hoped that a bond of respect was still there.

It was the Dons he was worried about. His mother had told him herself during their phone call whilst he still was in L.A: “ _The Dons are out for blood and if they couldn’t get your father, they’ll try and get you.”_

Vincent Wang was Jackson’s father; a man he had sat at the dinner table with countless times as a child, a man who had taught him how to swing a bat and driven Jackson and Mark to the ice cream parlour in his Lincoln coupe, letting Mark stick his head out of the window on the way home. Those images clashed harshly with the man standing in front of him now; they couldn’t exist in the same vacuum. He couldn’t be Jackson’s father anymore. He had to be Mr Wang.

Admiring the bouquet arrangement displayed on the champagne table, Vincent tugged at a soft, white petal and rubbed it over his coarse fingers. “Lilies. To symbolise innocence returning to the soul of the departed. It’s funny.”

Mark looked up over his champagne glass with a raised, interested eyebrow.

The older man let the petal drop from between his fingertips, fluttering to the floor. “Your father was anything but innocent. No number of lilies will ever bring that back.”

Silence overcame the two men and Mark wasn’t entirely sure whether he was supposed to laugh or not. Even if it had been intended as a joke, Vincent Wang had hit the nail on the head. Richard Tuan and innocent in the same sentence was ludicrous. Mark had learnt that the hard way.

“Anyway,” Vincent cut through the silence like a knife through butter, “you need anything, son, and you call. Family helps family.”

Despite Mark’s initial (and still existing) wariness of Vincent, he needed allies and he needed them desperately. Establishing himself was going to be an almost impossible task, however, having the loyalty and allegiance of the Wang family would only benefit him. And he was Jackson’s father; Mark trusted Jackson, trusted his childhood friend who respected his father fiercely. They were Richard and Vincent’s kids, the future of the Tuan and Wang names, and Mark wanted, more than anything, to uphold the bond that his father had fostered almost half a century ago.

Mark shook Vincent’s hand, feeling the sheer force and strength in the man’s muscles as his bones almost creaked. “Thank you, Sottocapo Wang, I appreciate and return the sentiment.”

Vincent disappeared into a circle of suited men, _his_ men, with a nod of gratitude and Mark finally let out a relieved breath. His face still felt heated as if a spotlight had been glaring down on him during the whole conversation, exposing any flaws or cracks for the right person to worm through. He still didn’t know where he stood exactly with the older man; whether Vincent would continue as _his_ underboss, step down or even cut away from the family altogether. Mark didn’t know which possibility worried him most.  

Guests continued to approach him and Mark had to adjust to the surreally bizarre way they greeted and interacted with him. The women fawned over him, laying kiss upon kiss on his cheeks and joyously praising his return, their faces glowing reverently despite the miserable reason they were there. A few women even gripped his hands in theirs, his thin fingers still in surprise as they pressed devout kisses into his skin like the good God-fearing citizens they were. He supposed they feared him more now than any deity.

The men shook his hand but not with the ease or informality of an acquaintance. They squeezed and grasped and clutched at Mark as if their physical might alone could show him how loyal they were to, not only his father and his name, but now to him too. Even one man had kissed his hand in an act of desperate approval; Mark too shocked to do anything but let him. He tried to remember how his father would greet people at parties when he was a child; impassive, patient with the crowds of people clamouring to touch or even see him and, particularly, unreadable. No one could read his father’s expressions and, therefore, did not know where they stood with him, allowing his father to always have the upper hand.

However, the Dons were a different story entirely. Mark could pick them out clearly in the mass of guests; older, suited men positioned in the middle of a group of other, suited men, an old protection technique Mark was definitely familiar with. His father hadn’t travelled anywhere without at least two men at his side, their eyes flitting around for possible dangers and hands discreetly in pockets to grab what was needed if it came to a fight. Greeting a Don as a family member or associate would shake some men to their core; it required the utmost respect and submission. Nothing except a kiss to the hand was acceptable, it had been and always will be the only way to communicate the reverence and loyalty of the lower hierarchy. Don to Don was a particular type of respect; boss to boss, a meeting of equals. If a Don disrespected another Don in any sort of way, it could almost lead to all-out war. In this distinct case, Dons would lean their cheeks against each other on both sides, the kiss of respect unspoken but acknowledged.

Don Im was unmistakable; you couldn’t miss the colossal-sized man standing at over 6 feet and weighing in at about 200 pounds and, especially, the long, deep scar sliced down his left cheek from his eye to his chin. A mark shrouded in mystery, no one actually knew who or what the scar’s culprit was. Nevertheless, it took Don Im’s menacing aura to a whole new level. An acute businessman, Don Im had risen the Im family from a small-time betting business to a seat amongst the Four Families, the most formidable crime families in the city. His outreach even stretched as far as Busan; he was a man on a mission to create an empire.

At first glance, Don Kim was a fragile, aged man with kind laughter lines and an inviting chuckle that made him come across as more of a harmless grandfather than a ruthless crime boss. However, first glances can be deceiving, and Don Kim had written the book on deceit. A climber, Don Kim had worked his way up in the Jung family from a lowly errand boy in his teens to a capo; an important position in the mob. He had a group of soldiers reporting directly to him and earned a substantial percentage in the family, enough to provide his family with any luxuries they desired. Regardless, it hadn’t been enough for Don Kim. In a night still referred to as the Chuseok Bloodbath, Don Kim took out his boss, his underboss, the family consigliere and every other capo in a matter of hours. It was bloody and it was a success; the Jung family ceased to exist, Kim was elected Don in the early hours of the morning and had not been challenged since.

The Ims and the Kims were not necessarily rivals of Mark’s family but Mark could not exactly call them allies either. Without a doubt, the families respected each other and, in some cases, the children or extended family members were friends. Mark still vividly remembered attending school with the eldest sons of both families, Jaebum and Yugyeom, and, for a while, they had been friends too. However, Jaebum was built for the family life; moulded by his father into the perfect successor, whereas, Mark had left the country, or fled in his family’s eyes. Jaebum’s phone calls had stopped about six months into Mark’s life in L.A., not that Mark could blame him. Mark knew that if he did not return after his father’s death, he would have most likely been labelled a traitor and Jaebum could not associate with traitors if he were to sustain his father’s influence once he took over.

He nodded at Yugyeom across the backyard and Yugyeom nodded back, his blazing red hair standing out in a sea of black. He looked much taller and harsher than Mark remembered, like the fire of his hair burnt deep in his chest too. A consequence of the lifestyle, Mark supposed grimly. As a child, Yugyeom had been an unstoppable ball of energy; always running, jumping, dancing, doing anything that wore Mark out just from watching him. Now, Yugyeom moved like a flowing stream; graceful and elegant, curving in and out between his fellow guests with a natural rhythm to him that Mark admired. He was channelled differently; there was a maturity to his movement and a precision to his focus. But, every now and then, Mark could see a ripple; a surge of barely suppressed, violent energy that would not bode well for whoever was unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end of it.

In his periphery vision, Mark spotted the Parks sitting at a table on the outskirts of the garden, clinking champagne flutes and chortling amongst themselves. Mark’s teeth ground together. He definitely didn’t want to think about the last of the Four Families.

A relatively average-sized, lean man in a suit approached Mark; a man Mark was already familiar with as a member of the Tuan family, not related to Mark, but who worked for his father. He murmured closely to Mark’s ear to avoid any prying ones.

“Im Jaebum would like to meet with you in your office, sir.”                 

 _Your_ office.

 _Sir_.

He’d have to somehow get used to that.

“Send him over.” Mark requested with a nod at the man before shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and turning away from the backyard, heading inside to the room at the left end of the house that his father had called his office.

Pushing open the door and standing in the doorway, Mark was not surprised to see everything was still the same as he had last seen it a decade ago. Not a single detail had changed, even the scent was familiar; tobacco and whiskey. Brown leather chairs were still scattered around the room for various family members to occupy during meetings and a leather couch was still pushed up on the right side of the room, facing the huge bay windows that overlooked the garden. The coat rack, bookcase, filing cabinets, consigliere’s desk and even the drink cart were still in the same places as before, like time had frozen them in place. His father’s desk took up the whole of the back of the room; an expansive, polished wooden table with a column of drawers on each side and an intricate pattern cut into the woodwork around the edge.

Mark crossed the room and lowered himself into the large red leather chair behind the desk; the only chair of that colour in the room to symbolise the Don’s seat. Running his hands hesitantly over the armrests, Mark’s stomach twisted at how wrong it felt to be sitting on the other side, sitting in his father’s chair. He had spent many an hour in the smaller leather chair opposite, listening to his father lecture him or watching his father write documents he didn’t understand. He had never sat in on a family meeting, that was forbidden until he turned of age, and he’d never had the chance. His father had tried to initiate him into this world when he’d turned eighteen and Mark had run, hoping to never look back. He couldn’t be the little boy sitting in front of the desk in this room; he had to drag his mind behind the desk, lift his shoulders, straighten his back and resemble something worthy of the red leather chair.

He didn’t know what Jaebum’s intentions for this meeting were. If he were to take an educated guess, Jaebum was digging for his father, finding out how much the Tuan family name was in turmoil. He didn’t know this Jaebum, the Jaebum who had left school and began learning the family way under his father’s watchful eye, but the Jaebum he knew had always had a slyness to him, a zealous desire to know his opponent’s weak spots and how to exploit them. Although, he hoped that Jaebum would enter the meeting with a more open mind than that. Mark wasn’t home to make enemies, he wasn’t preparing for battle, he just wanted to calm his mother’s concerns and make sure his family was financially secure.

 _That means becoming the Don,_ an insidious voice whispered in the back of Mark’s head. _How else can you protect them? Your mother, your sister, your future nephew… you have to protect them the way Papa did._

A knock at the door snapped Mark out of ensnaring thoughts and he called out to them to enter the room.

“Im Jaebum, sir.” The man from before announced, holding the door closed enough to keep the office unseen from the outside, waiting for Mark’s approval. Mark gave a firm nod and stretched back, resting into the tall back of the chair in an attempt at nonchalance. The man stepped back and held the door open, beckoning in with a swift wave of his hand before closing the door on the two men in the office.

“You look like a natural.” Jaebum observed, voice deep and echoing in the silence of the office. “Like you belong on that side.”

“Thank you.” Mark acknowledged in appreciation, although, he didn’t feel it. This wasn’t the plan; the picture Mark had imagined in his mind of where he’d be in ten years. Back in this room, back at this desk, watching men come in just like his father had. He felt something shift in him, in the room, as he stood and shook Jaebum’s hand in greeting; a swinging of the pendulum, a change in the hierarchy.

Jaebum had definitely grown up; wide shoulders filled out his suit jacket and he stood with a confidence that didn’t compare to the boy he had known in school. He almost looked exactly like his father, Don Im, from years ago; Mark remembered seeing the pictures. Slicked back, coal black hair, piercing eyes and a narrow, sharp nose; he was an exact replica of his father as a young man.

Mark gestured at the seat across the desk from him. “Please, sit. Can I offer you a drink?”

Jaebum brushed his hands down his trouser legs and flicked out the back of his suit jacket before relaxing back into the brown leather chair. “Whiskey, thank you.”

Grabbing two rocks tumblers, Mark lifted the decanter and filled the two glasses with his father’s favourite bourbon. Returning to the desk, he slid one glass towards Jaebum and kept the other in hand, returning to the red leather chair and settling in comfortably. He’d hopefully be able to get through the meeting if he was relaxed with a stomach full of whiskey. Hopefully.

With a quick spin of the glass, Jaebum tossed half of the bourbon down his throat and smacked his lips together in satisfaction. “Your father was a connoisseur of whiskey, I swear.”

Mark chuckled lowly, holding the glass just under his nose to inhale the caramel, vanilla and smoky fragrance notes that used to cling to his father. A true whiskey snob, Mark had never seen his father at a dinner, party or family gathering without a glass of the dark liquid in hand. He’d let Mark take a sip of his glass once, at a cousin’s birthday party, when his mother wasn’t looking. It had burnt the back of his throat and brought tears to his eyes but, in that moment, he had felt like the man his father was.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet you.” Jaebum crossed his left leg over his right and glanced out of the windows into the garden, eyes skimming the guests with laser focus as if expecting to spot someone watching the two of them.

Mark swirled the whiskey around in circles before gulping down the entire glass. “I understand it’s a very tumultuous time. Your father, and you, and I’m sure the other families too, are probably wondering what move I’m going to make next.”

Jaebum nodded along with Mark’s observation but his eyes were still glued to the window, watching the people move back and forth like a hawk surveying its prey. He rose suddenly to his feet and strode purposefully to the windows, drawing every single blind closed, blocking out the daylight and sending the office into shadow.

“Of course, that is of interest to my family and I but not in the way you’re probably perceiving it.” Jaebum returned to his seat, finishing his glass of whiskey with a flick of his hand.

“More importantly, I want to start this new era in good faith with you. Our families have never been at odds but our rivalry has certainly felt like bad blood at times.”

Mark could agree with Jaebum on that fact. In this business, it was all about being at the top and the Tuans had been there for years. They didn’t take on partners, they didn’t accept truces; they worked alone and that had infuriated the other three families. Despite full-out war never being declared, men had died in the families’ scramble for power and influence in their sectors of business.

“I’m not sure I’m the person you should be talking to about this.” Mark suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. Even now, he was still fighting to accept responsibility, accept the position he was in even though he knew there was no way out of it. There was a reason he was sitting in that chair and not on the other side of the desk. There was a reason the women kissed his hands and the men called him sir and the room silenced when he entered. He just didn’t want to admit it.

Jaebum tilted his head, eyes narrowed as if his laser focus could penetrate Mark’s mind. “You can’t fight this, Mark. If you were really against this, you’d still be in L.A. You know exactly what you’re doing here.”

Mark shifted in his chair with unease, Jaebum’s words echoing the snide voice in his head. _Who else is going to be Don? You’re the only one, Mark. The only son of Richard Tuan. There’s no one else._

“The family have already accepted you, they follow your every order. I see it on their faces, the way they address you… they’ve already chosen you. So, yes.” Jaebum finished with a smug grin. “You’re exactly the person I should be talking to about this.”

Mark wanted to roll his eyes but he already felt like he’d come across immature enough to Jaebum. Of course, Jaebum wouldn’t have an issue with this situation, it was completely normal to him. In fact, Jaebum would more likely benefit from Mark taking over the family business because he could reason with Mark, unlike his father could with Mark’s father. There was a chance of a partnership here and how Mark felt about becoming Don was something Jaebum just couldn’t relate to.

“We could build something here, Mark.” Jaebum leant forward, eager to show Mark all the advantages of their partnership. “We don’t need to share the top but we can… help each other.”

The offer was a fair one and Mark was definitely interested in starting positive relations with at least one of the families but it would require a lot of thinking on his behalf. On how his men would feel, on what he was willing to lose to the Im family, on how it would affect the re-establishment of his family name and their power in the city. His father had never wanted to be second best, and to his testament, he never had been. The Tuans had ruled Seoul with an iron fist, helmed by a true patriarch. But now, their influence was shaky, at best, and Mark had nowhere near the knowledge, skill, or fear his father had utilised.

“I’ll definitely need to think on your offer, Jaebum. It’s not a no but… as you can understand, I have a great deal of other matters to attend to.” Mark explained delicately, hoping that the non-answer would be enough for Jaebum right now. The Jaebum he knew had been impatient, volatilely so, and usually liked getting his own way. However, the other man bowed his head in understanding and Mark knew that they had reached, at least, an accepted impasse.

“Before I go…” Jaebum started, flashing his eyes again to the now shut windows. “There is something important I need to tell you. Not as a business associate, not as an Im family member but… as a friend.”

Despite the positive confirmation that Jaebum still saw the two young men as friends, Mark’s heart began beating erratically. The younger man still remained composed but Mark felt the static electricity in the air, the warning of something approaching on the horizon.

“There have been whispers amongst the families. I normally take rumours in the community with a pinch of salt but… it’s different this time. Something… isn’t right.”

Jaebum had lowered his voice, as if predicating the possibility that they were being listened to or recorded, and that thought sent shivers down Mark’s spine. Even the mindless chatter of the crowds outside couldn’t quell the storm in his chest; _“something… isn’t right.”_

Cracking his knuckles, Jaebum’s face was grave. “The whispers… they say your father’s death wasn’t an accident.”

Mark blinked. And blinked again.

_Wasn’t an accident… wasn’t an accident…. if it wasn’t an accident then…_

“You’re saying my father was murdered.” Mark replied blankly, piercing the dead silence of the room.

“I can’t be sure,” Jaebum clarified but the possibility had already been planted, digging its destructive roots into Mark’s chest. “But the rumour hasn’t died. You know what they say about smoke and fire… I can find people to look into it if that’s any consolation—”

“No.” Mark interrupted suddenly, shutting Jaebum down. “I want to do this myself. If someone planned the death of my father, I want to find them.”

Jaebum nodded, understanding that he would do the exact same if he were in Mark’s shoes. Rising from his seat, Jaebum shook out his suit jacket and smoothed back his hair, still the cool and collected businessman he was known for. Mark managed to keep his composure, standing up on barely steady legs and shaking Jaebum’s hand again.

“Thank you for this information, Jaebum. It means a great deal.”

And he meant it. If there really had been a hit on his father then Jaebum, a rival family member, had no obligations to even tell Mark what he had heard. It was a promising gesture; a symbol of how they could support each other in the future.

“Of course, Mark.” Jaebum assured, patting Mark’s arm in an act of comfort. “Family helps family.”

With that last almost pledge of support, the closest Mark could get to a word of allegiance from an Im, Jaebum left the room, shutting the door behind him. Mark was glad for the privacy; seeing a Don break down was practically unheard of. A sense of evenness and self-control was one of a Don’s strongest weapons. But Mark was still a man; still a son who had lost his father, the man who had raised him, and he had no fucking clue what to do.

 _Get yourself together,_ Mark scolded himself with a brute harshness he didn’t even know he possessed. _Do you think Papa would’ve sat in here crying? No, he would go out there and face every one of those sons of bitches. He’d look the killer in the face and smile. He’d shake the scumbag’s hand. But he would sit, and he would wait, and then he would strike._

He was wasting time, valuable time that he could use canvassing the guests for information, directing his men to begin looking into these ‘whispers’. No one was going to fix this for him; this wasn’t a mess his father could call Frank in to come clean up. He was standing on his own two feet now with a whole family of men who would do anything he asked them to. He may not have the influence his father had but every Don had to start somewhere. A blazing determination had been lit in his heart; a resolve he had never felt before. He was going to find out if his father was murdered, and by who, no matter what.

And if that meant becoming Don Tuan, then so be it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As the sun began disappearing behind the onslaught of dark clouds, Mark returned to the backyard, still bustling with guests who wanted the opportunity to approach the new Don. Although it had not been officially announced, most of the guests probably believed Mark was going to take over the family business and continue his father’s legacy. Therefore, the most important thing to every single guest was to curry favour and get on Mark’s good side.

The real celebration of Richard’s life had started up under the dusk of twilight. Mama had set up rows of outdoor string lights and a band had begun playing some of his father’s favourite songs, the guests creating a makeshift dancefloor in the middle of the grass.

Mark watched from his seat at a table at the back of the house, notifying his men that anyone who approached had to go through them first and then be approved by him. Taking a sip from a fresh champagne flute, Mark smiled as his mother twirled in circles with her brother, Mark’s uncle; her two great-nieces giggling and jumping up and down between them. It had been a while since he had heard her laugh and he enjoyed the sound, knowing that if she was happy he was doing his job right.

“Sir,” one of his men approached him from behind, leaning down by his ear. “Choi Youngjae wants to speak with you.”

Just a nod was needed and the man rushed away, returning shortly after with a small, young man carrying his own glass of champagne in one hand whilst brushing his caramel blonde locks out of his face with the other.

“Youngjae, it’s good to see you again.” Mark greeted, pulling out the chair next to him and signalling for Youngjae to take a seat. Sitting down with a beaming smile that could light up a room, Youngjae kissed Mark’s hand respectfully.

“You too, sir, you too. You’ve been well missed here.”

Mark grinned, patting Youngjae affectionately on the back. “There’s no need for the ‘sir’, Youngjae. We were practically brothers when we were kids.”

Youngjae blushed embarrassedly and cleared his throat several times. Out of all of the old faces Mark had reacquainted himself with during the day, Youngjae’s was the one that hadn’t changed in the slightest. In exception for the new hair colour, Youngjae was the same size he’d been in high school and even still had a faint remainder of puppy fat around his cheeks. Somehow, the innocence and, almost, incorruptibility of the boy Mark knew had managed to survive in the young man.

“But you’re my boss now, Mar—I mean, sir. My father is your capo now and I hope to become your capo after him.”

“And your father is a very esteemed capo, indeed. I hope you’ll pass that onto him for me.” Mark complimented with sincerity. Arthur Choi had served as his father’s capo for almost 30 years with the most unwavering loyalty a Don could ask for. Anything Richard had needed done, he could rely on Arthur; that was a fact of life Mark had grown up knowing.

Youngjae nodded intensely, accepting the praise for his father with the proudest of smiles. “Yes, yes he is, thank you! He wants you to know he will support your succession as Don, as do I, of course. And if you ever need anything, just call on us. It’ll be like the good old days.”

Youngjae spoke of the family business like a walk in the park; ‘the good old days’. Mark had to laugh. He wasn’t sure what was so ‘good’ about them but if he could guarantee the Chois’ continued support and loyalty then he would count that as another win for the day.

“I appreciate that, Youngjae. It means a lot. I would like to speak to your father and you in the near future, perhaps sometime this week?” Mark asked, knocking his index finger’s knuckle twice against the table discreetly; a gesture he remembered his father doing to notify his men that he wanted his diary and a pen.

“We would be more than pleased to meet with you, sir.” Youngjae exclaimed immediately, clasping his hands together like he could barely contain his excitement. Mark could understand; it was a great honour to sit alone at the Don’s table in conversation _and,_ then, to get another personal meeting after that? It would help Youngjae, and the Chois, reputation immensely.

“Then something will be arranged. My men will get in touch with you. I hope you have a nice night.” Mark finished the conversation after penning the meeting in his book and Youngjae recognised his cue to leave. Shaking Mark’s hand in goodbye, he took his champagne flute and re-joined his family’s table. Mark could already see him waving his hands animatedly to his cousins.

Already tiring of the festivities, Mark decided to retire to the office. Perhaps he could begin skimming through the mountains of paperwork in his father’s cabinets. There was so much he knew from the years he was a boy but he had missed too much being away for a decade. He had no idea what state his father’s affairs were in, whether they were making any profit or not, how many contacts they still had, how many cops they had on the payroll, just to name a handful of concerns. There was no better time to start than the present and Mark asked not to be disturbed by his men unless in case of an emergency.

With the blinds still sealed shut for privacy, Mark flicked the overhead light on and pulled out the first file he could get his hands on. Immediately, he was bombarded by numbers that didn’t add up, terminology he didn’t understand and data that didn’t exist. Even after an hour of reading, Mark couldn’t wrap his head around the first few pages. Obviously, he knew he was missing something; integral information that only his father, his father’s sottocapo and his consigliere would be privy to. At that moment in time, Mark didn’t feel entirely comfortable approaching Vincent to enlighten him. The man had seemed to offer a helping hand, however, an intense paranoia had made its home in Mark’s mind. He didn’t know who he could trust; even his father’s own men seemed to have their own agendas.

Tossing the papers across the desk in despair, Mark took a moment to wrack his brain for ideas. He had no close allies, no one he could turn to who could help him understand the mess in front of him. His mother was out of the question; she would have absolutely no clue and had been kept out of the family business for her safety. Mark wasn’t just about to put her in the line of fire, it would defeat the entire purpose of his decision to return home.

His father had wanted this, Mark knew it deep in his soul. Even if they hadn’t spoken for years, his father had known he would come back, would’ve prepared for him in case he wouldn’t be here to welcome Mark back into the fold. There had to be something in this entire office that his father had left to show him the way.

The door began to creak open and Mark heaved an aggravated breath, moving his hands through the papers purposelessly. “I thought I said I was not to be disturbed.”

Whoever stood at the door did not answer Mark’s reprehension, causing him to look up in question.

A man, enshrouded in black, face too covered for Mark to identify him, stared back at Mark mutely. His body was so still it barely even moved to take breath and his arms hovered at his sides steadily, right hand gripped tightly around something that glinted in Mark’s eyes lethally.

Mark leaned back in his chair, a strange calmness washing over him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the messenger.” The stranger replied, his right hand still, so still, around the knife.

Mark looked around the room; no exits except if he smashed straight through the windows, no clear weapons within arm’s reach bar the fountain pen in his hand, no men close enough to reach him in time if he shouted.

“Who’s the sender?”

He might as well find out what he could before it all ended. Perhaps he could take the truth with him; get some peace.

The stranger grinned and shrugged his shoulders in an almost apology. His lips were sealed tight.

 _A shame_ , Mark thought. _I wouldn’t have put up as much of a fight if I knew who’d ordered the hit._

Mark released a breath and placed his hands atop his lap under the desk. “So… what’s the message?”

It would be an awful scene for Mama to find. Hopefully, one of the men would find him first, spare his mother the trauma of finding the dead body of her only son. He shouldn’t even be surprised; death had been hanging over him the moment he’d returned home.

Finally stepping across the threshold, the stranger let the office door swing slightly behind him.

“You’re on borrowed time, Tuan.”

In a split second, the stranger charged.

Mark, having no choice but to think fast on his feet, flipped the desk with all the strength he could muster, blocking the stranger for a few desperate seconds. Before Mark could even gather his surroundings, the stranger dived across the overturned desk. He lunged at Mark with his right hand, steel scratching at Mark’s right arm he’d raised to quickly defend himself. The pain was searing hot and unapologetically _real_ and Mark kicked out at his attacker in chaotic desperation.

They stumbled across the room; swinging and punching and kicking, overturning furniture and smashing ornaments. Tripping over the drink cart, Mark tumbled to the floor, taking the stranger with him. He couldn’t see anything but the large, shadowed man on top of him; could barely breathe from the knees pressed into his chest and elbows pushing against his throat.

The knife flashed under the overhead light, poised above Mark’s face, ready to pierce. He didn’t even know how he had any strength left in his body to fight against the stranger bearing down him; gasping in the little air he could and forcing the stranger back with his arms. The tip of the blade nicked just under his eye and Mark felt blood trickle down his cheek.

He was exhausted, the fight leaving his body as a cold acceptance chilled his bones.

He couldn’t beat this. The man was going to slash his throat and there was nothing he could do about it.

Steel nudged at his neck, cold as ice, and Mark shivered. His arms fell limp.

_Crack._

The air shattered and warmth splattered across Mark’s face. Everything froze.

Mark’s eyes squeezed shut tightly. _I’m already dead… I’m already dead… I’m already dead… I’m-_

The heavy weight on top of his chest disappeared, collapsing to the side of him, and Mark heaved out a frantic gasp for air. His face felt wet and his eyelashes blinked heavily like they were sticky as he regained his vision.  

Lifting his head heavily from the ground, the room lazily spun, Mark’s stomach jerking nauseously, before his eyes focused on the doorway and the barrel of a gun pointing at him.

“You okay, brother?”

Jackson lowered the gun steadily and holstered it through a belt loop in his trousers, surveying the damage to the room. Mark glanced to the left of him at the body flopped lifelessly with a bullet hole through the head before nodding slowly. He felt like he should’ve been in a state of shock, perhaps even freaking the fuck out, but none of that came except for a blazing relief.

Crossing through the mess of upended furniture and smashed glass, Jackson stopped in front of Mark and offered out his hand. Reaching up, Mark accepted the help and the two of them hauled him up from the ground. Instinctively, Mark wiped his palm across his cheek and his fingers came back red.

Jackson grimaced. “I’ll get one of the men to draw up a pan of water and get some towels for you.”

Mark must’ve nodded because Jackson shot out of the room, barking orders on behalf of the Don. Two suited men appeared in the doorway, their stunned wide eyes speaking volumes. Neither of them said a word and Mark realised they were waiting on _him_ to tell them what to do.

“Lift this back up,” he pointed at the overturned desk before motioning his arms in general, “and get this shit cleaned up.”

The two men leapt to work and Mark dropped into the red leather chair, massaging his temples to work out the dull thumping in his head.

More men rushed into the room, brushing up glass and pushing furniture back into place. Two of them spoke into walkie talkies whilst canvassing the room, radioing back to others about securing the room and getting the house under lockdown.

Jackson reappeared in the doorway, ordering a young boy, most likely in his teenage years, to place some sort of washing up bowl full of water on the now upright desk.

“He say who sent him?” Jackson asked, tipping his head towards the dead messenger whilst dropping a handful of towels next to the bowl. Mark shook his head, splashing the cold water onto his face and rubbing at his cheeks thoroughly.

Jackson kicked at the dead man’s leg like it belonged to a ragdoll. “What you want me to do with him?”

Mark tossed more water over his face, panting lightly, and wiped the last splatters of blood away with a towel. He stared at the dead hitman mutely, eyes concentrated on his still body, before looking away and throwing the towel on the table top in disgust.

“Get him out of my fucking office.”  

Jackson bowed his head and took off to gather a group of men to discreetly remove the man’s body without any guests seeing. But Mark didn’t miss the quick, pleased grin on his face; like he’d been waiting all night to hear Mark sound like the boss.

Bustling movement persisted around him but Mark continued to stare at the documents placed back on top of the desk. Those papers, or any other file in this office, had to contain information that would aid him in re-establishing power. There had to be something in this room that could get him killed. Otherwise, whoever was working against his family wouldn’t be so boldly desperate as to send a hitman in the middle of a widely-publicised and largely-attended funeral. There were secrets in this room, deep in these files, and Mark was asking for trouble by opening them.

Smoothing back his hair, Jackson returned looking as smart and dapper as he’d left, not like a person who had just shot someone and moved their dead body. He dragged a brown leather chair up to the front of the desk and collapsed into it, removing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up. Smoke trailed around the two young men as the last of the workers left the room, promising to keep a guard at the door at all times for safety.

Jackson exhaled leisurely, plumes of smoke caressing his face. “So… who wants you dead? Besides every Don in the city, of course.”

Mark choked on a laugh and poured himself a glass, swallowing down the panicked bubble rising in his throat with the sting of bourbon.

“Whoever killed my father, I assume.”

“Killed?” Jackson shot up in his seat, ash falling onto his trousers. “I thought your father’s crash was an accident.”

“That’s not what Im Jaebum has heard. The community is talking.” Mark revealed, snatching the cigarette from Jackson’s fingers and taking a slow, consuming drag.

“You’re gonna trust the word of Im Jaebum? He’s not the boy you remember, Mark; he’s cutthroat, literally and metaphorically.” Jackson warned, snagging his cigarette back. The older rolled his eyes; he wasn’t stupid, of course he knew what kind of man Jaebum had become, and he wasn’t naïve either. But there had been a look in Jaebum’s eyes, an honest appeal for trust, and Mark had believed him.

“He wants to start on good terms,” Mark removed his suit jacket and rolled his shirt sleeves up, “and he was my friend once. It makes sense, doesn’t it? They wanted Papa gone for years and they got what they wanted.”

“I bet they didn’t factor _you_ into the equation.” Jackson smirked around his cigarette with a raised eyebrow and Mark grinned helplessly. It was a little bit funny, he had to admit; these families thinking they’d finally one-upped the Tuans and then losing their minds at the sight of him. He enjoyed it, the thought of fucking the three other families over and making life difficult for them. One of them may have taken his father from him; he wasn’t going to let that go lightly.

“I’m gonna find out who did it...” Mark looked up from the desk straight into his friend’s eyes, “and I’m gonna kill them, Jackson.”

Jackson watched him wordlessly, mulling over the declaration with a puff of his cigarette. Leaning forward in his seat, Mark’s dark eyes searched Jackson’s.

“I can’t do this without you. I’ve missed ten years, Jacks. There’s so much I don’t know, so much I need taught to me.”

“You’re playing with fire, you know that?” Jackson shook his head in bewilderment, tapping his cigarette on a nearby ashtray. “If you start digging… and a Don ordered this, because you know one of them must have, no button or cugine would be stupid enough to do this alone… and you hit _back_ at them?”

Jackson stuffed out his cigarette, hand shaking, eyes deadly serious.

“That’s war, Mark.”

Leaning back in his chair, Mark knew Jackson was right. If he found out who ordered the hit on his father, he would not be able to live in peace without retribution. A murder of a Don is a direct declaration of battle; a move to conquer the family and their businesses. It could not go unchallenged or unpunished. Letting the matter go would be like spitting on his father’s grave. Either Mark conceded and damaged the Tuan family name beyond repair, losing all power, influence and money they had, or he evened the score and all hell broke loose.

Jackson smiled wistfully and tapped his cigarette pack against the desk.

“You’ve already made your decision, haven’t you?”

“If it was your father,” Mark implored and Jackson flinched at the thought, “you would do the same, brother.”

There was no dispute, no disagreement; in their community, a son would start a war for his father’s honour. Shaking the box into his hand, Jackson slid out another cigarette and lit up, inhaling the fumes and letting his body unwind. They sat in silence for a moment, letting the choice Mark had made sit between them. Taking this first step into his father’s underworld terrified Mark like nothing ever had and he didn’t want to do it alone

“Be my consigliere.”

Jackson choked on his next inhale, sputtering out smoke. “What?!”

“Who else would I choose?” Mark wandered over to the drink cart, pouring two glasses of Scotch. “You know this life better than anyone else. The men believe in you and listen to you. You are my most trusted friend.”

Sliding one glass across the desk, he clutched Jackson’s hand in his own, the two young men holding each other like they were boys again.

“Jackson, you’re my brother.”

It was unspoken; their bond, their childhood together under their shadowed fathers, the years they had spent physically apart but still thick as thieves. Jackson had never turned his back on Mark, never shunned him as a traitor or coward. He had understood that Mark hadn’t been ready then but that, in time, he would be. He had stood by Mark when no one else had.

The corners of Jackson’s mouth slid upwards and he kissed Mark’s hand.

Like Mark was his Don.

“Let’s go to war, boss.”

 

 

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! here's chapter 2 I hope you enjoy!
> 
> chapter warning - mentions of drug use

Mama had once told him that nothing weighs on the mind more than a secret.

In third grade, Mark had kicked a boy in the shin on the school playground and the principal had phoned home, disgusted with his behaviour. After a clap on the ear for embarrassing his mother, she had asked him what the kick was for. Mark had explained that the boy had called Papa a crook; had openly mocked him in front of the entire class and shouted “my father says your father is a filthy gangster and should go to jail!”, causing all the students to ridicule him.

Mama had looked down at him with a smile that had made her look sad at the same time and pulled him onto her knee, brushing his hair back from his face. She had cradled him in her lap and told him that his father had secrets; enough secrets to fill the ocean. They weighed on him and burdened him, like rocks tied to his feet, but it was a part of, not only his job, but his life, and all of their lives too. In order to lighten Papa’s load, people helped keep Papa’s secrets; Mama, Mr Wang, and all of the men who worked for Papa.

“We take an oath, Mark. It’s called Omertà.” Mama had explained, the foreign-sounding word causing Mark’s eyebrows to scrunch up in confusion. “It means we swear to never tell Papa’s secrets or we’d get in trouble. Family keeps each other’s secrets.”

“One day, Papa will ask _you_ to keep his secrets.” Mama had murmured, stroking his hair gently. “And then you will have secrets of your own.”

Mama had made secrets sound easily tameable, like sharing them made them harmless, but Mark knew now exactly what secrets were.

Secrets were a noose around a man’s throat, poisonous gas choking your lungs, the single bullet in the barrel of a gun. Secrets smothered and strangled. Secrets infected and corrupted. Secrets tortured. Secrets killed.

And Papa’s secrets were lethal.

The boy who mocked Mark that day didn’t attend school for three weeks after the kicking incident.

His father had been found face down in a back alley, shot through the mouth.

No kid in school ever made fun of Mark again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“So, what’s our next move, boss?”

Mark gulped down the last dredges of Scotch in his glass, wincing at the bite trailing down the back of his throat. He definitely preferred the bourbon.

“I’m finding out who killed my father. Put every man on it; it’s all that matters right now.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jackson questioned, dragging the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass. “We wanna be smart about this.”

“Then what do you suggest I do, Jackson?” Mark snapped, knowing his impatience shouldn’t be taken out on his friend but having no choice. He couldn’t sit back, he couldn’t wait whilst his father’s killer could sleep at night thinking they’d gotten away with it. He wanted to act, and act now.

“You’re my consigliere now.” Mark snarked and Jackson sneered back at him. “Counsel me.”

“I think you’re barrelling into this because you’re mad.” Jackson stood from his seat and paced the width of the desk.

“And you have every right to be; your family has been grossly wronged and we _will_ seek justice for the crimes committed against you. But think about it… what was the aim of taking out your father?”

Mark rested his elbows on the desk and linked his fingers together, leaning his face on his hands in deep thought. “To weaken us.”

“Exactly.” Jackson rested both of his hands atop the desk, watching Mark with analytical focus. “With your father gone, there would be no one to rule the roost. The businesses go bust, the deals dry up and the contacts disappear. The Tuan name loses all its power and influence. You become nothing.”

“Which allows another family to take our place at the top.” Mark realised with a storming rage. It almost felt frivolous to him; like children arguing in a playground over who deserved the best toy. All the families were wealthy, way beyond their means, and had significant control over different districts in the city. There wasn’t peace but there had been something close to it. And someone had been hungry enough for power to take the risk of breaking it.

Mark gestured at the decanter of bourbon and Jackson refilled their glasses.

“Then what do I do to stop them?”

“You reclaim what belongs to you.” Jackson smirked, setting a glass down in front of Mark. “You take it all back. You’re more of a threat to them once you’ve re-established power; you’d be able to make new connections and contacts, plant some of the boys in the districts to see what they can find out. Money buys you authority, money buys you dominance and money will buy you the truth.”

It sounded almost insurmountable. Mark had no business experience whatsoever, he’d only worked odds and ends jobs in L.A., jobs that didn’t require much skill or intellect. To switch from that to running his father’s empire? It didn’t seem possible. But it was all Mark had. Richard had worked for decades to build Mark, his mother and sister a kingdom, and now it was being sieged.

Mark inclined his head in agreement, sensing that he had just stepped into the ring, placed his piece on the board. All that mattered now was his next move.

“Where do we start?”

“Your father’s files.” Jackson decided, strolling across the room and seating himself at the consigliere’s desk. He paused for a moment, smoothing his hand over the desktop in awe before tapping his fingers twice against the woodwork and looking up, snapping out of wherever his mind had travelled.

“He would’ve made records of everything; profits, deals, distributions. We find his accounts and we start from there.”

“Well, we better start looking then.” Mark glanced over at the rows of cabinets warily and had a feeling they would be tackling this for a while.

Mark had never been a particularly organised individual. Unfortunately, he’d been coddled as a child. His house had been a ‘father had the chequebooks, mother had the cookbooks’ kind of family; an ancient and narrowminded way of life but hey, it had worked for them. Especially as there were certain chequebooks that weren’t strictly legal.

Sure, he’d had a folder for his living expenses, taxes and debts in L.A. but it was basic, at best, and shoved away in an overflowing drawer. Therefore, it wasn’t much fucking use.

His father’s filing system, however, was an absolute goddamn nightmare. 

Barely anything was in its right place even though there was an alphabetised system with colour coding when needed. Folders from the current year were mixed in with documents from decades ago, sticky notes covered nearly every single sheet of paper with information that was missing from the original document and everything was covered in fucking coffee stains.

It didn’t make any sense; his father had been a sensible and efficient man, how else would he have been able to run several businesses? He had to have a system of the highest calibre, especially as the mob had chosen to ignore technological advancements. Everything was done old school; you wrote it down on paper and it went in a file.

Riffling through the _F-J_ drawer, Mark paused at a folder labelled _Finances 2017-18._

“You think this could be what we’re looking for?” Mark called, plucking the folder from the cabinet and handing it to Jackson, who was almost elbows deep in stacks of paper.

Jackson glanced down at the file, frowning slightly before nodding. “Could be. Let’s have a look.”

Mark crossed the room, glancing out of the windows, blinds now rolled up, and studied the guests still drinking and dancing outside. The time was heading towards midnight but no one was ready to go home; his family could party like no other and his father deserved the best of send-offs.

Taking a seat, Mark flicked the manila folder open and scanned the first document, eyes widening in astonishment. “This is it. Everything my father was earning money from. This is all of it here.”

The two young men stilled, staring at the file like it was a ticking time bomb. Ultimately, they were just documents but it felt, in a way, like opening Pandora’s box, like kicking a hornet’s nest. Mark scrutinised the list closely and acquainted himself with the numerous operations his father had been running.

“Okay, you need to explain… all of this,” Mark gesticulated wildly at the sheets of paper, “because a lot of this doesn’t make sense to me.”

Jackson grinned sympathetically, picking up the first piece of paper and scanning over it quickly. “Right, okay, let’s start from the beginning. Choi’s construction firm…”

“Choi as in Youngjae?”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah, his father Arthur has run the firm for your father for nearly 15 years.”

“So, what kind of contracts are we talking? Residential, commercial?” Mark eyed a list of funds, all at least 6 figures long, with suspicion. Unless his father had been building goddamn mansions then these figures were dubious.

“It’s uh…” Jackson hesitated, wincing slightly, “not _that_ kind of firm.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at Jackson. Okay, those figures were now beginning to look more than dubious.

“Then what _is_ the construction firm used for?” He asked, already feeling especially naïve. He should’ve realised before even opening the file that he would be stepping into a world of illicitness. What was written on paper didn’t necessarily mean what it would under legal and moral circumstances; they were under the belly of the law now.

Jackson rolled his sleeves up and downed half of his glass of bourbon. “It’s how your father cleans the money.”

Mark sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. So, the Chois were money launderers. That was a major development in Mark’s perception of them. He was going to need another glass of whiskey for this.

“And how does that work exactly?”

Jackson chewed his lip for a moment, a rapid plan forming in his mind, before grabbing a pen and paper.

“Say I have $5 million in drug money,” he wrote _‘$5 mil’_ on the left side of the paper, “and I need to get it into the financial system. I have to make it look legitimate. So, through the construction firm, we set up a contract.”

On the opposite side of the paper, he drew a house, taking the time to detail a picket fence and smoking chimney. Jackson tended to have a flair for the dramatics, even when describing the act of money laundering.

“We decide to build a house for… let’s say, one of those nice politicians in our pockets, a swell lil $1 mil home to keep ‘em quiet for us. But we _claim_ the house cost us $5 mil. That leaves us with a cool $4 mil in the firm that enters the system clean as a whistle for us to use as we please.”

Emphasising an arrow between the ‘$5 mil’ and the house, Jackson then drew arrows leading from both into a building labelled ‘CON FIRM’.

“And, as we continue to bring more and more money in, we keep changing the details of the contract. Labourers pull out, we need more materials, demolition is needed on the land, whatever bullshit we can sell to funnel more money into the construction firm that can come back out cleanly. If the cops come sniffing round, we start a new contract. That’s as simple as I can explain it.”

Mark’s head spun with the new knowledge. He still didn’t really understand exactly how the whole process worked but what he definitely gathered from Jackson’s mini lecture was the unambiguous criminality. The Chois had broken the law for years for his father; they were prepared to continue breaking the law for _him_.

“Book a meeting with the Chois.” Mark decided and Jackson began jotting down details in a pocket diary. “I’d like to discuss with them how things are running over there.”

Revenue wasn’t looking good at the firm; the money had slowed to a sluggish pace, almost as if the Chois were too scared to move anything, and that possibility concerned Mark. If there was an issue, it needed to be addressed as soon as possible so the money could start pouring in again.

“I’d like to bring Youngjae into the next meeting, if that’s okay with you?” It had been an idea playing around in Mark’s head for a while now but he knew it was the right thing to do. He didn’t have an underboss and his capos, apart from Arthur Choi, were shaky; he needed to pull ranks and begin filling the higher levels of the family with people he could trust.

Jackson considered the proposal before nodding. “It’s a good idea. Youngjae’s a determined lil squirt and he’s damn loyal. Keeping someone like him close would certainly be an advantage.”

Moving on with a little more confidence than he had started with, Mark turned the sheet of paper over to what seemed like a list of districts in Seoul, all with amounts of money and names recorded underneath.

Mark ran his index finger down the list. “All these people across the city… what are they paying us for?”

“Protection.” Jackson clarified with a nonchalance that rubbed Mark the wrong way.

“What the hell would they need protection from? This is extortion!”

He shook his head in profuse revulsion; the idea that his father had been bleeding these innocent people dry just to fill his own pockets made his stomach turn. It was one thing to take money from fellow criminals, to prosper from dirty money, but to also cheat law-abiding citizens fought against every moral fibre of Mark’s being.

Jackson rubbed his temple with his hand, finally realising that Mark wasn’t just going to straightaway accept Cosa Nostra as his way of life. He’d spent a decade in America, shaping into the man he was now, discovering his morals and principles, what he felt was right and wrong. A decade away from the mob was almost a lifetime; you became a different person, you followed a different set of rules. What Jackson saw as the only life he’d known, Mark saw a copout; a compromise of the person he claimed to be.

“Most of these people run businesses, Mark. Most of them have families, loved ones, people they want to keep safe.” Jackson’s voice grew louder and more incensed in defence of his community.

“Your name _means_ something in this city. With the Tuan name in their front window, they’re untouchable. If another family member robbed their store or hurt their kid, they would have to answer to you. Trust me, they’re safer coughing up a sum to us every month than being an open target.”

It made sense; in some dark, murky part of Mark’s mind where the Mafiosi in him hadn’t gone away, he understood. The streets were dangerous, full of young gavones trying to make a name for themselves, and if you wanted to put your head to your pillow with ease at night, you made sure you were looked after, no matter the price.

It made sense.

And yet Mark still felt like a thief.

“Then why did a whole district stop paying to my father over a month ago?” Mark asked, pointing at a section of names whose amounts were missing. “Didn’t feel like they needed protection anymore?”

Jackson’s face darkened. “Unless they’re paying to someone else.”

The implication chilled Mark to the bone.

“You think…” Mark swallowed dryly, processing the blow of anguish through him. “…that person could be my father’s killer?”

If the assumption were to be true, that would mean whoever had killed his father had been making plans, diverting money and power to themselves, for weeks, maybe even months, before they committed the act of eliminating him. It was calculated, a premeditated act of securing authority, to ensure their chance at leadership once his father was removed from the picture.

It nauseated Mark.

“I want someone in the area now. Someone you trust will find out what’s going on.”

It was an order, no questions asked.

“I know just the boy. Give me one minute.” With that, Jackson left the room.

Letting the sound of the guests’ laughter and the booming of the live band wash over him, Mark had to wonder what was stopping whoever orchestrated this from stepping out from the shadows and assuming power. The family, albeit loyal to Richard when he was alive, were in disarray; most of them either only knew Mark when he was a boy or had never met him at all. They merely knew him as the son of Richard who had ran away and that wasn’t a strong enough foundation to build any trust upon. Instability was the perfect condition for leadership change; the men were looking for someone strong and formidable and Mark wasn’t sure he could offer them either.

It still felt like strings were being pulled behind the curtain, like his father’s murder hadn’t been the end to a plan but just the beginning.

A knock sounded at the door and Jackson poked his head in. “Alright to come in, boss?”

Mark bowed his head, beckoning him in with a wave of his hand. The door swung open and, behind Jackson, entered a boy in his late teenage years, probably around 16 or 17, whose eyes bulged as soon as they landed upon Mark. Fresh-faced with short black hair and an eager stare, the boy reminded Mark of himself when he was younger, how excited he would get just to sit at the imposing desk with his father. It had felt like an honour, sitting opposite a Don, even if it was his father, and the young boy probably felt exactly the same.  

Jackson gripped the boy’s shoulders and pushed him into a brown leather chair, patting them encouragingly. “This is Sammy, Kang’s kid.”

Mark raised his eyebrows; Kang was an impressive reference to have to your name. A long-time family member, Kang had usually made the mess that Frank was called in to clean up. Enforcers tended to be gruesome in their line of work; maiming, dismembering and executing, all in order to get what the boss wanted. He had sat across from a young Mark at the dinner table one evening, face red and blotchy from wine and booming laugh filling the room. He’d pointed at Mark, winked and told him:

_“You want someone to disappear, you come to me, boy.”_

Mark had giggled, foolishly thinking the man was a magician; who else made things disappear?

He didn’t want to think about the amount of homes that didn’t have fathers, sons, brothers, because of Kang.  

The teenager kissed Mark’s hand, as expected. Folding his arms together atop the table, Mark leaned towards Sammy, the teen pulling back unconsciously.

Mark grimaced. “You think you can do a job for me, kid?”

“Absolutely, sir! Whatever you need me to do.” Sammy assured, nodding his head so fast his neck clicked. The boy was determined, that’s for sure; it was a promising sign.

“Good.” Mark began writing down instructions on a small pad of paper. “I need you to go to Gwangjin, ask around about who the folks are paying protection to. But _be discreet_. You don’t want no one snitching about this to the other families, you hear me?” 

Sammy continued to nod along vigorously, his bushy eyebrows furrowing together in concentration.

“This is _important_ , okay, Sammy? The first bit of info you get and you report right back to me, you listening?” Mark stressed, underlining certain details and addresses. He was beginning to feel pathetically desperate, trusting practically a kid with possibly finding out who his father’s killer was. But he could see conviction in the young boy’s eyes and knew there was no one else for the job.

“Loud and clear, boss. I won’t let you down.” Sammy promised, holding his hand to his chest like he was swearing an oath.

Mark tilted his head, watching the boy and imagining for the first time what it would be like to have a younger brother by blood. “You need anything, Sammy? Things alright at home?”

“Well…” Sammy cleared his throat, wringing his hands together. “I’m hoping to start at the local university soon and… mom’s in a lot of debt because of dad, not that I blame him but—”

“It’s done.” Mark interrupted, pulling out a chequebook and quickly scribbling down an amount. “There’s 2,500,000 won for now and when you come back, you get double that, alright?”

Ripping out the cheque, Mark handed the slip of paper to Sammy who accepted it with trembling hands. He looked up at Mark, eyes glassy, and _wow_ , Mark thought, he’s really just a kid. A kid wanting to make something of himself, to live up to his father’s reputation and build his own. This could be the making of him. Mark hoped it would be.

“Thank you, boss! I won’t let you down, I swear!” Sammy gushed, standing up at the pull of Jackson’s hand and half-bowing to Mark before being ushered out of the room.

Mark flicked through a few documents as Jackson shut the door. “You sure he’s up to the job?”

“I trust the kid.” Jackson lit up a cigarette and puffed on it languidly. “He’s a cugine but he’s a stand-up guy; Mafiosi blood in his veins. He’s grown up waiting to be made so give him the chance.”

Mark nodded. He could understand wanting to live up to your father’s name, feeling like you had to prove yourself in any way you could. There was a time when Mark would’ve done almost anything to make his father proud, but, the only thing his father had wanted for him was Cosa Nostra; to join the family. And Mark hadn’t been able to give him that.

In a way, Mark almost wished that he’d never gone to L.A., never let his father down. It would’ve been difficult but, with his father’s help, he could’ve learnt to stomach the family business, conditioned himself to the world he’d lived in for so many years as a child without realising. His father hadn’t raised a chump (“you ain’t no gavone”, his father would say) but he’d really made himself look like one, jumping on a plane under the shadow of night without a word to a soul. It was going to take more than a few good business deals to salvage any sort of reputation.

Jotting down a few notes, Jackson took another drag of his cigarette. “What’s next on the agenda, boss?”

“I wanna know what’s going on with sales.” Mark revised the figures on the spreadsheet in front of him. Several payments were from foreign accounts; China, the Philippines, Thailand and even a few as far as Mexico and Colombia. In the past six months, it was obvious that profits, for some reason, had been slowly dropping and trade had grinded to an almost halt.

“These are, I assume, the drugs and arms deals, but they’ve been drying up for a while.” It wasn’t unheard of to lose contracts, however, after learning about the district not paying their protection fee, Mark was beginning to believe less and less in coincidences.  

“I wanna know why. Why they’re not buying from us anymore and who they’re buying from now.” Because it was obvious. If they weren’t buying from the Tuans then they had to be getting their goods from someone else. Someone who knew that Richard Tuan wasn’t going to be around for much longer and began stealing deals in preparation.

“I know some of the buyers. I’ll meet with them.” Jackson took down all the names he knew so far on paper. “As your consigliere, my role is to represent you and mediate with them. If they hear that you’re restoring the Tuan name, they may be tempted to come back. And then, we can get them to give us a name.”

It was a long shot; the buyers were so money-orientated that they may not be persuaded to purchase from a name as precarious as his. Both businesses were ruthless, brimming with cunning smugglers, brutal gangs and mighty cartels. But the structure of the family, and the Don specifically at the top, meant Mark’s hands would never get dirty. He may never touch the goods or even see them with his own eyes. Nevertheless, everything felt like a risk at this point, like he was waving his hand over a lit candle, just asking to be burnt.

With a frustrated sigh, Mark reviewed the year’s breakdown again. “So, the only thing here that is bringing in any substantial profit for us is… Silk?”

He looked up at Jackson in puzzlement.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s your fathers club.” Jackson answered, sucking at the last dredges of his cigarette before extinguishing it in the glass ashtray.

“Club as in nightclub?”

Jackson made a face. “And a lot more than that.”

It really felt like the universe was laughing at Mark. Of course it had to be ‘a lot more than that’; what did Mark think his father was running, a fucking bridge club?

No explanation followed and Mark groaned, waving his hand for Jackson to elaborate.

“Prostitutes, poker and a list of drug choices longer than my arm. Typical of clubs in the area.”

Well, that was straight to the point.

Mark stared at Jackson a moment before huffing a breath. “Right… typical…”

He had never imagined his father as the club-owning type, if Mark was being honest with himself. Richard had been kind of a stickler and unexpectedly moral for a Mafiosi man, choosing not to invest in pimps or brothels even when it would’ve seriously benefited him. He had been almost adamant about it in his lectures, his finger raised and righteous.

_“Men choose to work for me, son, but most of those women didn’t have a choice. And I don’t agree with that, not at all.”_

Mark continued to flip through Silk’s surprisingly substantial profits. “And who’s running that right now?”

Only silence responded to Mark’s question, leading him to look up at Jackson in await of an answer.

Jackson sighed.

“…Bambam.”

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

Nothing, not a single issue, that Mark had discussed with Jackson that evening disturbed him more than the idea of Bambam being in charge of one of his father’s businesses. He would’ve preferred a shit-throwing chimpanzee in charge than the Thai native.

“Are you kidding me?! Who’s the fucking genius who came up with that idea?!” Mark burst out.

Jackson’s face smoothed out blankly. “Your father.”

Mark quieted, the wind knocked out of him. He’d never questioned a decision made by his father before; they’d always had a brilliance to them that he could never see at first. Richard had always seemed to be ten steps ahead of everyone; he always foresaw any and all possible outcomes and he always had a backup plan. If he chose _Bambam_ of all people to run the club for him then there had to be a good enough reason behind it. It was just that, once again, Mark couldn’t see the brilliance behind it.

“The kid is a fucking maniac, Jacks! Last I heard he was a coked-out bum! You know I have reason to be concerned.”

He’d heard the stories, even all the way on the other side of the world. The stolen money to fund his several day long binges, the drug-fuelled rages, disappearing for a week and then turning up in hospital. The Thai native had seemed fine when he’d walked through the front door when Mark was sixteen years old, the two teenagers forming an almost brotherly bond. But Mark had left two years later and the year after that, Bambam had gone off the rails.

“He’s not like that anymore, I swear.” Jackson appealed. “He’s off the crack, has been for a while now. Your father did a lot for him; he owes everything to the Tuan family.”

He wanted to believe Jackson, he truly did, but he couldn’t just forget his mother weeping on the phone because Bambam had gone missing again. The young man had brought so much stress on his parents when they had welcomed him into their home with open arms.

Jackson watched Mark seriously. “He did this _for_ your father, Mark. He knows, more than anyone, how much he fucked up. This was his way of apologising for his wrongs. He took Omertà, Mark… he’s as much a brother to you as I am.”

Mark was still cautious. Who could blame him? Bambam’s behaviour had been an embarrassment, it had brought shame on his father’s name. Bambam wasn’t the first family member to become an addict and he certainly wasn’t going to be the last but it showed weakness in the family. And where there’s weakness, the sharks smell blood.

“Alright,” Mark decided. “Arrange a meeting with him. He’s obviously doing something right and I’d like to hear from him how he’s doing it.”

It had been years, and Mark didn’t know this adult, responsible version of Bambam, but the guy was family. Apart from his mother and sister, Bambam felt like the closest connection left to his father. They had spent the entire summer before Mark had left together, attached at the hip; hours of gaming at PC rooms, bike rides to the Han River and secret nights out drinking together. Bambam had struggled when he’d arrived at the Tuan house and Mark knew he had, not just issues, but severe and triggering memories to work through. However, Mark had turned his back on his family once before, when he’d disappeared in the night like a puff of smoke, and he was never going to let that happen again.

 “We’re making moves, boss.” Jackson assured, lighting another cigarette. “Whoever it is out there, hiding in the shadows like the coward they are, we’re gonna scare them out into the light.”

Mark watched the sparkle of the string lights outside. He wasn’t concerned with scaring whoever murdered his father. You don’t shoot a gun to scare.

You shoot to kill.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The late summer sun beat down on Mark as he stepped out from the black Escalade, readjusting his sunglasses against the glare. The streets were already bustling early in the morning; traders setting up their stalls, calling out to potential customers, and construction drills ringing in the distance. Appearing at his side, Jackson groaned pitifully, one hand rubbing his temple whilst the other removed a cigarette pack from his suit pocket.

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna need to finish the whole pack just to get through this meeting.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have joined the rest of the party last night, should you?” Mark snorted, glancing over at Jackson who looked about ready to collapse. “Get yourself together, I need you on your A game.”

Mark hadn’t expected the Chois to offer a meeting so soon, literally the day after they had reacquainted themselves with Mark, but it was definitely appreciated. He refused to hesitate or waste any time in rebuilding the Tuan name and affiliated businesses. There was a purpose that fuelled him unlike anything he had ever experienced; no dream, no aspiration, no hope had ever powered him like this. He still had his concerns over the lifestyle, and he wondered if they would ever really go away, but, just like Bambam had taken up Silk to atone for his sins, Mark would kick and scratch the Tuan name back up to the top to atone for his.

He stared across the gravel at the building in front of him in bewilderment.

“This is it?”

Honestly, he hadn’t been expecting a giant warehouse or sophisticated office space but the tiny shack ahead looked so innocent in nature that the idea of money laundering taking place behind its doors was laughable.

“What did you think it would look like? Some nefarious lair? Sorry, we skipped out on the shark tank and death laser for budget purposes.” Jackson snarked sourly, pushing his hair out of his face and scowling up at the ball in the sky partly responsible for his head throbbing.

Mark just chuckled in response, devilishly enjoying Jackson’s hangover pain.

Two minders who travelled in the Escalade returned from securing the area, a task that now had to be completed anywhere Mark travelled at the behest of Jackson. After the encounter with the ‘messenger’ the night before, Jackson had viciously stepped up security around Mark, not taking any chances of another attempt on the young Don.

In the doorway of the modest office, Youngjae waved for the two young men to come inside. Jackson groaned again and Mark knew exactly why; Youngjae was a happy morning person and, even sober, Jackson definitely was not. Mark could feel sorry for him but, if he was being honest, it was funnier to laugh at him.

“Ah, please excuse the mess!” Youngjae bustled around the small room, moving boxes and brushing papers out of the way. “We’ve been revising the files all night. If you cut me, I’d bleed coffee.”

Youngjae laughed, bright and wide awake, and Mark had to see Jackson’s reaction, he just had to. Said hungover idiot whined and dropped into a plastic chair at the back of the room, pulling the window blinds next to him shut. Mark poured a sympathy glass of water and waved it in front of Jackson’s face, who took it with a thankful grunt.

“Thank you for meeting with us this quickly, Youngjae, I really appreciate it.” Mark sat in the plastic chair in front of the desk and took a swift glance around the room.

Stacks of boxes containing files piled up against the walls, several already opened by the Chois last night but most still covered in a layer of dust from lack of use. At least three computers in the room were on and running, opened on spreadsheets of incoming and outgoing funds. Behind the main desk, a door led to a separate room, locked and windowless, and Mark had a strong feeling that was where the money was handled. Although small in size, the room, surprisingly, didn’t feel dingy or cramped and Youngjae looked comfortably at home sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Of course, sir! My father will be here any minute now, he had some errands to run.” Youngjae fretted back and forth, brushing the mess of papers on the desktop together in a tidier fashion and making cups of coffee with the machine under the window.

Mark smiled at the young man scurrying around. “I’ve told you, Youngjae, there’s no need to call me sir.”

Youngjae just tch’d at him and continued to pour coffee in several cups, taking note of who wanted milk or sugar. Several moments later, the front door creaked open and Arthur Choi shuffled in, a slight limp in his step from early onset arthritis. Mr Choi was a short man, almost the same size as his son, with a bald head apart from tufts of grey hair behind his ears. Despite old age setting into his frail body, his bright, playful eyes and cheeky grin spoke of a much younger soul.

“I apologise for my late arrival, Don, I had to speak to some of the boys about what’s been going on lately.”  Arthur thumped heavily across the room, kissing Mark’s hand before heading to a seat opposite Mark, slumping into the chair with a grunt. He lifted his left leg and rested it atop a cardboard box with a wince, massaging his joints gently.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr Choi, and, as I’ve already mentioned to your son, I thank you for meeting with me so soon after my return. My father held great respect for you and I appreciate everything you did for him and continue to do for the family.” Mark thanked, accepting a cup of black coffee from Youngjae with a grateful nod.

Arthur bowed his head in gratitude, taking a sip of coffee. “I took Omertà nearly 35 years ago, sir… the family has been my priority, my heart and soul, for half of my life. Your father was my boss, that is true, but he was also my brother. I choose to support his son just as I supported him for decades.”

To hear loyalty, pure and bona fide loyalty, from someone so close to his father; someone who had enjoyed the stability of Don Richard Tuan’s era for decades and was still prepared to work for Mark who was, admittedly, a young and unpredictable newcomer, was better than any praise or compliment he could ever receive. He didn’t want yes-men, brownnosers who thought baseless flattery got them everywhere or doormats who didn’t challenge him. He wanted allegiance from men with integrity, honesty and faith in his capabilities but who were also willing to help in areas where Mark might lack.

“Thank you, Mr Choi, that…” Mark cleared his throat. “…that really means a lot.”

The older man smiled at him, warm and fatherly, and Mark had to look away, taking a sip of his coffee. Looking behind him, Mark could see Jackson finishing his coffee with a tad more life in his cheeks before taking out his pocketbook and pen. Clearing his throat again, Mark turned back to the two Choi men.

“So, how have things been running?”

Arthur flicked through a heap of files on the desk, stopping at one and handing it over to Mark.

“Business has been slow, I’m not going to lie to you. As you probably know by now, the deals have been drying up, we’re not entirely sure why, and with money not coming in, we’ve been getting a lil heat from the cops.”

“The cops?” Mark repeated, eyebrows squeezed together in confusion. “Haven’t we got a ton on the books? How would they even know about this place?”  

“Unless someone snitched.” Jackson finally spoke up from the back of the room, watching the other men with a serious gaze. Mark looked back and the two young men locked eyes, speaking with a look what they knew could not be said out loud.

“Not only that,” Arthur continued, his face sobering in severity, “but the Yakuza have been sniffing around too.”

Mark heard Jackson practically shoot up in the seat behind him.

“Yakuza? What do you think they were looking for?” Mark asked, already feeling a sense of dread settle over the room. Pen scratched against paper as Jackson furiously wrote down notes and Youngjae anxiously tapped his fingers against his coffee cup.

“Those sons of bitches have been waiting for an in to set up business here for years.” Arthur seethed, leaning forward fiercely before wincing at his aching joints and flopping back into the chair.

“They’ve probably heard about Rich and come to see if they can finally form any sort of influence here.”

South Korean organised crime had been a hard market to crack for the Yakuza, Arthur explained to the younger men. The Four Families made business in Seoul impenetrable for their Japanese counterparts and it had infuriated them for years. As one of the largest and most recognised organised crime syndicates on the entire planet, the Yakuza were constantly trying to expand their reach and fill their pockets with other countries’ cash. So far, they had managed to establish small clubs and gambling offices in a few cities like Daejeon and Ulsan but it was nowhere near the control or profit the Four Families had. News of Richard Tuan’s death must’ve been an early Christmas present for them.

Mark cracked his knuckles, scowling at more bad news. “I’ll definitely be looking into this, Mr Choi, thank you. Business should be back up and running again soon and I appreciate your hard work.”

“Please sir, call me Arthur.” The older man insisted, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re my Don, I’m the one who should be addressing _you_ with formalities.”

Arthur was right, of course; in their lifestyle, the Don was treated with respect above all else, no matter what age he was or his subordinates were, but the situation still made Mark uncomfortable. He was persistent in Youngjae not using formalities with him because of their history together and their closeness in age but Mr Choi was asking the same thing of him. Mark hadn’t even been born when Arthur had taken Omertà and began his career as a capo in the Tuan family. He had years on Mark; years of experience, wisdom and intelligence that Mark nowhere near reached. He now had to take orders from someone around the same age as his own son. Doubts and insecurities began trying to gnaw away at Mark’s confidence but he swept them away, at least for now. It’s not like he could change the situation anyway. He was the Don now, no going back.

Walking back to the Escalade, Mark mulled over everything he had learnt from the meeting with the Chois. Cops sniffing around was one thing, they could eventually be bought to back off, but the Yakuza was a completely different story. The syndicate had no idea how the Four Families made money in Seoul or how to make connections.

Unless, one of the families were helping them.

The thought repulsed Mark; that one of the families had compromised everything they stood for and worked with an enemy just to finally topple the Tuans once and for all. The Four Families weren’t allies, that was undebatable, but they refused to introduce more rivals into the market of organised crime. The city was ruled by the four of them and that was it, they didn’t allow any room for other gangs or syndicates. It was unspoken; they competed against each other, fair and square, with no outside help or partnerships apart from trade deals.

“Someone really recruited the fucking Yakuza.” Jackson fumed, ripping his cigarette pack out of his pocket. “That makes me fucking sick. God, I need more coffee.”

Mark called over the elder man driving them. “Let’s stop somewhere. I need to think.”

A local, family-owned coffee shop were opening as the Escalade pulled up, setting out ornate metal bistro chairs and tables. Mark and Jackson picked a table outside, discreetly tucked away in a corner, and ordered their drinks. The barista, alarmed by the amount of suited men standing around, rushed away and quickly returned with two coffees. Jackson lit another cigarette and moved his sunglasses atop his head, pushing his fringe back.

“What you thinking, boss?”

Mark sipped at his cappuccino, letting himself indulge in the rich sweetness and frothy cream.

“I’m thinking that adding the Yakuza to the equation has definitely made things difficult. I’m already one misstep away from war with the other three families, I’m nowhere near prepared to take the Japanese on as well. It just feels like someone is creating problem upon problem for me, like they’re trying to stop me from getting anything done.”  

More and more, circumstances around his father’s death and the months leading up to it were disconcerting to Mark. The dried-up deals, the district not paying protection, the tipped off cops and the circling Yakuzas; it all set off alarm bells in his head. Mark couldn’t differentiate between the impressions he was getting; sabotage, coup, mutiny, outside enemy, inside job. He just couldn’t piece anything together to see the bigger picture.

Jackson took a pull of his cigarette, puffing the smoke into the air. “The further you rise, the closer you get to knowing who this piece of shit is. I suspect this won’t be the last problem we’ll run into.”

Definitely not for the first time since he’d arrived home, Mark wished his dad were here. He wished that he could ask him what he would do in this situation, who he should talk to and what message he should send to those who were undoubtedly watching him. His father would’ve known exactly what to do; he always did. But Mark couldn’t ask.

Staring across the tables, Mark noticed a man standing under the awning of the shop next door, shifting on his feet uneasily. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark watched the man glance over at him more times than he could count. There was something familiar about him and Mark realised that the man had been a guest at his father’s funeral and had, most likely, followed him here. He looked as if he was building himself up to walk over but chickening out last minute. Sick of waiting, Mark called one of his men over and directed them to bring the man to him. Stumbling over his feet, the man protested weakly as a large man in a suit dragged him to Mark and Jackson’s table, shoving him forward to face the two young men.

Mark placed his cappuccino down after taking a sip and looked up at the shaking young stranger.

“I thought instead of wasting more time, I could just have you brought over here to tell me why you’ve been following me.”

“M-My boss…” The man stuttered, removing a ball of paper from his pocket and handing it to Mark. “He wanted me to give you this, t-that’s all.”

With a flick of his hand, Mark shooed the messenger away, who took off running down the street. Unravelling the scrunched-up piece of paper, Mark turned the sheet over and froze.

_“We should come up with our own secret language.”_

_“Oh god, what terrible idea are you going to suggest now?”_

It hadn’t been long enough. He could still understand the symbol in a second.

_“No, Mark, hear me out, I’m serious! We’d be able to talk to each other and no one would understand.”_

_“So, you want us to have even more secrets than we do now?”_

Two arrows crossed over each other, intersecting, coming together.

_“Look, this can mean… meet me. Come and see me. I need you.”_

_“But I always need you.”_

_“You’re such a dork.”_

“That supposed to mean something to you?”

Mark snapped out of his head, out of the past, to Jackson watching him weirdly. All of the men around him were staring too, trying not to peek down at the sheet of paper that had silenced Mark for a good few minutes. Gripping the paper, Mark shook his head.

“No, it’s not important.”

Jackson didn’t look convinced, narrowing his eyes as he took a drag. “So, you know who sent it?”

The arrows were crossed. He hadn’t been _needed_ in years.

He crumpled up the paper and threw it out into the street.

“Not really… not anymore.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Leaning in the kitchen doorway, Mark watched his mother bowed over the stove, focused on her pots with a concentration that only spoke to her years of cooking experience. Sweet, sour and spicy flavours wafted past Mark; a million and one memories rushing through his mind at the familiar smells.

“I’m making your favourite, Bubba!” Mama raised her wooden spoon to her mouth and tested the taste. “I bet you haven’t had homemade kimchi stew in years!”

Mark smiled, nodding at the multiple pots. “You’re making quite a lot there. I’m not sure I could finish all that.”

Mama chuckled, thwacking Mark on the arm with her spoon.

“It’s not all for you, greedy. I’m making some for the lovely young men who have been here at the house 24/7 looking after us. They should have something warm in their tummy.”

Security at the house had been ramped up at Jackson’s request as well. Family men worked shifts around the clock; patrolling the grounds, guarding the gates and acting as lookouts in case anyone attempted to even get close. Mama felt safe with a full house and if it put her mind at ease, Mark was more than willing to keep a crowd around. The house had acted as a family base for years anyway. Mark remembered large dinner tables brimming with family; men laughing in the smoking room, women nattering away in the kitchen and children racing around the garden. It felt cosy, like the sheer amount of people could try and cushion the gaping open wound left by the loss of his father.

“How was work today?” Mama held her spoon to Mark’s mouth, blowing on the stew first before spooning it into his mouth. It was a tradition of theirs; as a child, Mark would hang onto her leg whilst she prepared dinner, ladling little spoons and blowing on them for him to get an early taster of what was to come.

Mark chewed slowly, savouring his mother’s cooking, before swallowing. “Uh… interesting.”

“You know,” Mama looked up at her son and grinned amusedly. “Papa used to say the same thing.”

Mark’s mouth tilted up before he could help it. It would just be so ironic that, despite every way he tried not to be, he was still his father’s son, and now, his father’s successor. Ten years had seemed enough time to restart, erase everything about him that his father had instilled, moulded, shaped. And yet, it had only taken a couple of days home to make Mark realise that nothing had really changed. His father was always going to be a part of him; in everything he said and did, a whisper of his father’s voice spoke through him.

“Mama…” Mark leaned against the arch built over the stove. “If Papa thought that someone was going to hurt him, do you think he would’ve told me?”

She didn’t respond at first, instead, pursing her lips in thought and salting the stew. After a moment of silence, Mama placed her hand atop Mark’s arm and squeezed gently.

“Well… I know that you and Papa didn’t speak for a long time and there were a lot of issues keeping the two of you apart but… yes, he would’ve told you. Whether it be a phone call or he told you in one of his unique Richard ways, you know what he was like… he would’ve told you, Bubba.”

It was comforting; his mother’s unfaltering trust in his father, the man she had loved since she was 18 years old. But there was a side of Papa she had never known; a door that had closed in her face when they had married. Despite how much she had originally wanted to look in, she learnt questions would go unanswered. The door would remain closed. She only knew Richard the husband and Richard the father. She may have known his favourite food and how he took his coffee but she didn’t know how much drugs he transported through the country or how many people he’d had ordered killed.

She knew Richard. But she didn’t know Don Tuan.

“Oh, Bubba,” Mama wiped her forehead and fluffed her hair, flustered and sweating from the heat of the kitchen. “One of your old friends is here to see you. I told them to wait in your office.”

“Thanks Mama.” Mark kissed her on the cheek tenderly and she smiled up at him, eyes twinkling. It was nice to see. Mark thought the twinkle had died in his mother’s eyes the same day his father had.

He could hear men cheering as they entered the kitchen after him, happily sitting down to their homemade meal. Mama treated them all like her own children; tousling their hair, kissing their cheeks and making sure their stomachs were full before they left the table. It was a quality Mark admired in her; the ability to shut off the part of her brain screaming at her who, and what, these men were and provide for them because they had been her husband’s men and were now her son’s.

Pushing the office door open, Mark noticed the man sitting in the brown leather chair in front of his desk before turning to pull the door shut. “I apologise for making you wait, I’ve been at a meeting.”

“That’s okay… all I seem to do is wait for you anyway.”

Mark stilled, eyes fixed on the oak door. He wished he could say his feet were frozen, that he didn’t want to turn around and, in fact, wanted to flee the room.

But it would be a lie.

He, miserably, hadn’t wanted to see anyone more since he’d arrived home. That’s how it had always been.

He had to turn around, he didn’t have any other choice, holding his breath until his chest ached.

Jinyoung rose from his seat. “Hi, Mark.”

Mark blinked, feeling a throbbing pain in his hand, and looked down, realising he was squeezing his fist so tightly his nails were ripping into his skin.

“What are you doing here?” It was all he could ask, all he wanted to know. Blood rushed to his ears and he worried he wouldn’t be able to even hear Jinyoung’s reply.

“You got my note?” Jinyoung stood still, composed, face void of emotion.

It was strange; in one blink of his eye, Jinyoung looked like the teenager Mark had known a decade ago. The same jet-black hair and bushy eyebrows, the same exquisitely piercing dark eyes and full cheeks, the same rosy pink and plump lips—

Mark shook his head.

And yet, there was something so unnervingly different about him. The way he held himself, wider shoulders than Mark remembered held back in confidence, strong muscled arms leaning casually at his sides, and the dark, sharp planes of his face… a man Mark was not familiar with stood before him. Mark used to be able to understand Jinyoung’s very thoughts with a twitch of his face, a slight change in his expression. Now, he almost wished he could see the creases around Jinyoung’s mouth, the wrinkles under his eyes, and understand where he stood, who he was to this stranger.

“Yes, I got your…” Mark stuttered, getting unusually irritated with himself, “…I asked you what you’re doing here.”

Jinyoung gestured at the red leather chair. “Shouldn’t we sit down for this?”

For a brief moment, Mark wanted to stubbornly stay where he was, furious that Jinyoung was controlling the situation. He had made a conscious attempt to ignore Jinyoung’s manipulative side when they were younger; making up excuses of how, in some cases, it was necessary for them to get their own way, for them to not get caught out. But when Jinyoung used it on him, his skin crawled with uneasiness. It always felt like a betrayal; like Jinyoung didn’t want Mark to put up a fight and just do what he wanted instead. The younger man had always been a slight control freak.

Accepting that he was just being immature, Mark cautiously walked around the desk, keeping space between the two of them, before dropping into the leather seat. The two sat silently together for several beats, staring at each other.

“Seeing you on the other side of this desk is like something out of the Twilight Zone.” Jinyoung chuckled hollowly. “Didn’t think this was your… _forte_.”

He spoke the last word with derision, like he was taunting Mark for daring to wear his big boy pants and sit in his father’s seat. Jinyoung was a sniper with words, waiting patiently to line the target up for a perfect kill.

Mark gritted his teeth. “What do you want?”

“What, I can’t come and see an old friend? Catch up on old times?” Jinyoung leaned back in his seat with a smarmy grin Mark wished he could slap right off his face.

Jinyoung was vicious; this wasn’t a new fact to Mark, having grown up listening to Jinyoung’s barbs and being at the receiving end of a few when the younger was particularly enraged. But this Jinyoung, the stranger, was downright poisonous.

“I don’t think you’re here for small talk, Jinyoung. You never do anything without an agenda.”

Jinyoung tilted his head, acknowledging Mark’s jab as an unfortunate fact. It’s not like he could deny it; Jinyoung masterminded how they got ice cream when they were kids to marijuana when they were teenagers. When used for good, Jinyoung had accomplished wonderful things but when used for bad, his intelligence was almost diabolical.

Jinyoung folded his hands together over his knee, looking every inch the professional. “I have information worth knowing if I were you.”

“And what would you like in return?” Mark stood, strolling over to the drink cart and pouring two glasses of bourbon. Sliding one glass across the desk to Jinyoung, he retook his seat and watched Jinyoung narrow his eyes playfully at him.

“What makes you think I want anything?”

Mark gave a breathy chuckle. As a kid, Jinyoung wouldn’t even do the dishes for his mother without asking “and what do I get in return?”. His services, no matter who asked for them or whether he even offered them himself, were costly.

Mark took a sip of bourbon. “Everything with you has an ulterior motive. You don’t do anything without knowing what’s in it for you.”

Jinyoung hummed, chewing his lower lip; a habit he had picked up to suppress a laugh. Mark hated how it always drew his eyes in.

“How about I tell you the info first and we’ll see how much its worth?”

A conversation with Jinyoung felt like a chess match; you have the impression that you’ve got the upper hand the entire time and then the bastard checkmates you.

Mark nodded, gesturing for Jinyoung to continue.

Jinyoung swallowed a third of the bourbon, teasing out whatever he’d come to say. He loved to reel people in, leave them hoping and waiting, before hanging them out to dry.

“The families are arranging a meeting.”

Mark frowned, immediately flicking through the diary on his desk. “I didn’t get any word of this—"

“Without you.”

Mark stopped, looking across at Jinyoung before scoffing, slamming his diary shut with a harsh bark of a laugh. To call a meeting of the Four Families and not invite one of the Dons? The blatant disrespect burned in Mark’s chest. He felt three feet tall, like all of his hard work so far was totally and utterly worthless. He felt like a kid again, waiting outside his father’s office to be allowed in but having the door shut in his face.

“Well… what do you suggest I do then?” Mark asked, knocking his knuckles forcefully against his glass. “I don’t think turning up to a meeting I’m not invited to will bode well for me.”

“Send someone.” Jinyoung answered simply.  “Not an associate or those lower rank rookies but someone you can trust will be discreet and who can fill you in on everything discussed.”

“Then,” Both Jinyoung’s eyes and grin glinted, “arrange your own meeting.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “My own?”

The younger nodded, leaning back in his seat with a casualness that reeked of the arrogance of a man who knew he was right. “See who turns up in respect for the Tuan name. See who turns up just out of curiosity. And, especially… see who doesn’t turn up. And watch them the closest.”

It was, Mark hated to admit, a pretty solid plan. Infiltrating the meeting with one of his men meant he could discern where each family truly stood with him. Then, holding his own meeting was an ultimate power play. It would be a message; that he knew what the families had done behind his back and he was daring them to show up. If they didn’t face him, they looked like cowards and it could shake their men’s faith in them, meaning they had no choice but to attend. He would corner them, like rats, and they would either scatter or run straight at him.

“Add them to your list.” Jinyoung spun his bourbon glass nonchalantly. “I know you must be compiling one by now.”

Mark didn’t respond. _He’s baiting you, you know it,_ Mark told himself. _Don’t rise to it._

Jinyoung looked up at Mark, eyelashes fluttering innocently. “I’m not on your list, am I?”

No response.

“I’ve heard rumours.” Jinyoung’s eyes darkened, the faux-naivety completely dropped.

“Murky surroundings around your father’s death and how it may not have been entirely innocent. I know what you’re thinking. You’ve got the Park name right at the top, haven’t you?”

Mark inhaled strongly, staring at Jinyoung with intense warning. _He’s not gonna back off. He’s reeling you in and you’re about to be squirming like a fish caught on a hook._

Jinyoung stared back, a challenge in his gaze. “Am I wrong?”

Mark bit. “Am I right?”

Jinyoung raised his head, taking the win. “If I knew my father had done it, I would tell you, Mark.”  

He noted the honesty, the firm sincerity in Jinyoung’s face and voice. It was almost charming that Jinyoung thought Mark didn’t know he’d learnt how to fake that genuine authenticity years ago. The younger could tell a lie easier than the truth. Mark knew Jinyoung would never rat on his father. Just like Mark would never rat on his own.

Jinyoung sensed his disbelief. “Trust me.”

Mark barked out a laugh, coarse and callous. “Trust… that’s rich coming from you.”

The younger rolled his eyes; he’d never been able to deal well with Mark’s stubborn bitterness.

“Mark, I know it’s hard to believe but, despite what’s happened, I want this to work out for you and if I knew something, I wouldn’t lie to you. You have to know that.”

“I don’t know that.” Mark cut to the core. “I don’t know you. Not anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”

That wasn’t true; Mark knew Jinyoung better than he knew himself. Nights had passed in a blur of the two sharing their very souls with each other, telling their deepest secrets, hopes, fears. No one had ever, and would ever, understand Mark like Jinyoung did. But this was where they were. And, despite Jinyoung’s many layers of emotional steel, Mark knew just where to hit where it hurt too.

For a second, Mark thought the mask would slip; he would see through the cracks of this façade to the real Jinyoung. However, the younger huffed an unconcerned laugh, smooth edges now sharpened. The wall returned.

“Point taken. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Mark glared at Jinyoung; the older had never taken threats easily.

Jinyoung leaned forward with an ominous stare and Mark felt like the younger stole all the oxygen from the room.

“This was an inside job, Mark, and you can’t admit it to yourself. My father wanted your father’s power the fair and square way, that’s what he always told me. He would never kill a respected family leader for an easy power grab, he sees it as cheating.”

Mark suppressed the urge to cut Jinyoung off, to shut him up and ask him to leave. Because if he did, Jinyoung would win. And he would win because he was right.

“This was someone close and someone desperate.” Jinyoung stated like he knew it for fact, watching Mark as if he expected the other to argue with him.

“They didn’t just come in through the back door. _They were already here_. Open your eyes, Mark. Can you really trust the people around you? You’ve been gone for years. You may not know me anymore but that means you certainly don’t know them either.”

Just like so many arguments they’d had over the years, Jinyoung served the finishing blow. Without even seeing him in a decade, he had managed to expose Mark’s fears and suspicions, extracting them brutally and throwing them to the floor for all to see. Certainly not for the first time, and definitely not the last either, Mark berated himself for ever appearing vulnerable to Jinyoung.

Clenching his jaw, Mark stared Jinyoung down. “Are we done here?”

Jinyoung stared back, allowing silence to cast over them for an uncomfortably long time, before nodding.

“Yeah… we’re done.”

It didn’t sound or feel final but, then again, nothing ever did with Jinyoung.

The younger stood from his chair, looking down at Mark one more time before heading for the door.

“So, what do I owe you?” Mark called out, already kicking himself for entertaining Jinyoung further.

Turning back, Jinyoung smirked and Mark cursed his heart for skipping a beat.

“Dinner. At The Orchid. Tomorrow at 8 o’clock.”

Mark opened his mouth, a thousand arguments on the tip of his tongue on why that was a terrible idea and how he didn’t want to see Jinyoung again, but he closed it, knowing none of that would sell with the younger man. He’d walked right into another trap and Jinyoung knew it, still smirking confidently, as if he’d already heard Mark’s answer.

Unable to bring himself to say anything, Mark just nodded in response.

Jinyoung’s Cheshire cat grin grew even bigger, if possible, and he tapped his knuckles twice against the door.

“It’s good to see you, Mark.”

Mark wasn’t sure if he could say the same.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did you think of jinyoung's dramatic entrance? obviously he has a past with mark.... tell me your theories!!  
> until next week! thank you!
> 
> slang definitions
> 
> Cosa Nostra - term for family or Mafia  
> gavone - an idiot, an embarassment  
> cugine - a young toughguy looking to be made


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! hope you enjoy chapter 3, lemme know what you think!  
> chapter warning - allusions to suicidal thoughts

Lazy early morning sun filtered through the half open blinds, painting the office in a warm orange glow. Taking a sip of his coffee, Mark stretched his body and lit a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag and letting the smoke cloud the room. He wasn’t usually a smoker but the habit relaxed him and the enveloping smoke allowed him to block everything out and think.

Jinyoung’s visit had kept Mark awake all night; tossing and turning, mind burning with questions. The younger loved chaos; the urge to cause mayhem fuelled so many moves and decisions he made. He never made anything easy; you had to work for him to get what you wanted. Therefore, the concept of Jinyoung turning up after ten years to _help_ Mark and make things easier for him was almost ludicrous. Jinyoung refused to hand anything over without hearing you beg first.

Which was why the idea of Jinyoung not having a motivation was hard to believe.

Trying to figure out Jinyoung’s intentions with showing up the day before felt like wading through weeds in a swamp; it was too murky to get through or see anything substantial. And that’s why he couldn’t fully trust what the younger man had to say to him. He couldn’t deny that a meeting was being held without him, some of his men had looked into it last night after Jinyoung had left and confirmed it to be true. But Jinyoung’s accusations of an inside job against his father didn’t sit well with him. Jinyoung very well could have visited him at the behest of his father, Don Park, to talk Mark into a paranoia towards his family men and associates. Implode the Tuans from the inside before the family had a chance to re-stabilise itself.

However, a tiny part of Mark wanted to believe Jinyoung more than anything. That was the kicker; ten years had changed everything but nothing at the same time. Jinyoung was still the kid he had grown up with, the kid who had promised that he would lie to everyone but Mark because _“you’re different, Mark, you’re not like the others”_. They had lied to their fathers’ faces for years because of each other; only the two of them knew the whole truth. In a way, they had only ever been completely and utterly honest with each other.

It was a risky tightrope to walk. Trust Jinyoung or not, both with dire consequences if either were wrong. Mark added the issue to his mental list of ‘things I could royally fuck up’ and decided he’d revisit it later.

Aside from Jinyoung consuming his thoughts, a nightmare had kept Mark from resting his head back on a pillow. He recalled it like a movie playing before his eyes. He was stood in a cemetery, rain pouring down and soaking him to the bone as he looked down at his father’s grave. Although the tombstone had seemed normal at first glance, Mark looked again at the bottom line.

_He was first._

Bewildered, Mark glanced at the adjacent tombstone, stumbling backwards as he saw his own name etched in the stone. Heart racing, Mark had tried to scramble away, close his eyes, block out what he was seeing. But the words were etched in his brain.

_And you’re next._

He’d awoken in a pool of sweat, panting harshly, the sheets gripped tightly in his hands. His mother believed fervently in omens, a prophetic sign of evil to come, and Mark couldn’t help but think that his nightmare signified a ruinous future coming for him.

“Sir.” One of the men addressed Mark with a knock at the door. “Sammy is on the phone for you.”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up and he immediately grabbed the old corded telephone his father had kept for years.

“Sammy, it’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s not too early to call, sir?” Sammy’s crackly voice could barely be heard over the chatter of people and passing traffic in the background.

Mark relaxed back into his chair, resting his cigarette on the nearby ashtray. “No, not at all. What have you heard?”

“Folks are reluctant to talk here, sir.” Sammy explained. “Any time I bring up who they’re paying to, people get real jumpy and closed off. They’ve even kicked me out a few stores for mentioning it. I get the feeling they’re scared, sir… scared of whoever’s taking their money now.”

The new information from Sammy didn’t sit well with Mark. His father may have been a formidable man but the people who paid to him never really feared him; by gaining his protection, they would never be at the receiving end of his wrath. Whoever the district paid to now wanted, and even thrived upon, the people’s terror. Although a column that held up Richard Tuan’s empire had been intimidation, the foundation had been respect.

 _A man who respects you will try to stab you from the front,_ his father had told him once long ago, _and you have time to react. But a man who fears you will try to stab you from the back and you’ll be none the wiser._

“I did get something though, boss!” Sammy’s voice squeaked, filled with excitement at impressing Mark. “A bank account number!”

Mark hummed in interest, his skin prickling with the sense that he was about to get one step closer to pulling back the bloodstained curtain.

Sammy continued. “It’s the account everyone pays their fee into. They refuse to give a name, an address, anything… except this account.”

“I’ll look into it.” Mark confirmed, jotting down the account number Sammy read out to him, underlining the important digits.

_008-129736._

“You’ve been a great deal of help, Sammy.” Mark praised the young boy truthfully. Without Sammy’s infiltration of the district, Mark would’ve continued to be in the dark about his father’s killer. Several circumstances around Don Tuan’s death felt disconcertingly connected. Mark believed figuring out who was behind just one fit the last jigsaw piece into the puzzle.

“Anything else you find out whilst you’re there, you call me straight away, you got it?”

“Absolutely, sir!” Sammy’s determination seemed almost to strengthen as the call came to an end. The boy would do anything to impress him, Mark knew that, and it felt perilously like he was the wolf leading the lamb to slaughter. In a way, he felt like he was his father watching his younger self seek approval through any means possible. He thought, at the time, that it had been admirable, but now, the reek of desperation unsettled him.

Swallowing a few mouthfuls of coffee, Mark massaged his temples lethargically, squinting his eyes as the sun’s rays spilled across the desk. Although the peaceful silence that had enveloped the house had been shattered, with the clash of plates and glasses and rowdy chatter of men resonating from the kitchen, a shroud of quiet still cloaked the office.

Mark’s mind buzzed, whirring with an ear-piercing ring that was impossible to switch off. Too many thoughts demanding attention at once, too many doors that needed to be opened, too many fears that could be realised with one misstep. His father’s murder, the lost deals, Jinyoung, the district, the Yakuza, Jinyoung, the circling cops, Silk, Jinyoung, Jinyoung, _Jinyoung…_

“Morning, boss. Sleep well?”

Jackson, slouched in the doorway, raised one hand and saluted lazily, ash trickling to the floor from the cigarette in his other hand.

Still in his pyjamas but, in his typical unpredictable Jackson way, wearing polished black dress shoes, the younger had decided to move into one of the guest rooms in the house instead of returning home every night. They tended to burn the candle late and Jackson decided that his priorities lay at the heart of the Tuan home. And he loved Mama’s extravagant breakfasts every morning.

Mark cocked his head at Jackson challengingly, letting the black circles and bloodshot eyes speak for themselves.

“Ah…” Jackson grimaced, clicking his tongue. “Another cup of coffee then.”

One cup of strong black coffee each later, Jackson and Mark sat in a cloud of smoke, watching the sun explode over the horizon and shower the garden with light.

Mark took a heavy pull of his cigarette. “Jinyoung came to see me last night.”

“Oh fucking--” Jackson spluttered on his coffee, hacking aggressively. “Jinyoung? Seriously?”

His exasperated disbelief was to be expected. Mark had never forgotten Jackson’s lengthy lectures before he’d left: _“This isn’t going to work… you’re making a fool of yourself… he’s not going to choose you… imagine what your father would do if he knew…”_

He’d listened, he’d nodded, he’d even agreed but that had never changed a thing. He thought about last night; how he’d felt like a fish squirming on a hook, baited and reeled in, unable to free himself. He’d never figured out how to escape Jinyoung’s hold and, before everything had gone wrong, he hadn’t minded. To be the centre of Jinyoung’s attention; that’s all Mark had asked for. But the spotlight had begun to burn and, despite Jackson’s warnings, Mark hadn’t felt the flame until he was ablaze.

He rolled his eyes. He hated when Jackson, albeit unconsciously, patronised him. He wasn’t a child anymore; he knew the power Jinyoung had over him and he knew _Jinyoung_ knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. He didn’t need a guardian to protect him, he was a grown man. And yet, a niggling voice deep down in the back of his mind hissed at him that he’d need an army to keep Jinyoung from him.

“He came to tell me some useful information, that’s all.”

Jackson didn’t look convinced, eyebrow raised in scepticism, and Mark was too tired to defend himself. Instead, he decided to divert the subject into territory he was comfortable with.

“The families are hosting a meeting. Without me.”

“Those bastards.”

Jackson seethed, squeezing his cigarette forcefully, ash scattering atop his pyjama pants. Mark understood; a slight towards Mark was a slight towards the entire family, including the consigliere, and Jackson had never taken insults well.

“So…” Jackson shoved his cigarette into the ashtray and folded his arms. “What does the great Park Jinyoung recommend? I’m sure he has some sort of masterplan that eventually works out in his favour.”

Mark may have been the one person who got the closest to the true Jinyoung but Jackson was all too familiar with Jinyoung’s tricks. Although the main reason Jackson had never seen eye to eye with Jinyoung as teenagers had been due to Mark’s relationship with him, the two were simply on opposite ends of the spectrum as people. Jackson followed the book by the letter and valued transparency; the more open a person was, the more willing Jackson was to trust them. Jinyoung was a shut door with 100 padlocks; you could never guess what he was thinking or what he was going to do next. Jackson couldn’t stand lying and Jinyoung had written the book on it.

“I’m going to send someone.” Mark finished his cigarette, crushing the butt into the ashtray. “Someone I can trust will blend in and tell me everything that was discussed.”

Jackson snorted. “Well we ain’t got many of those going around.”

The one person Mark trusted without a shadow of a doubt was sitting across from him and there was no way Jackson would be able to attend the meeting discreetly. If Mark was unwelcome, that same courtesy, or lack thereof, was extended to Jackson. Somehow, he needed to find someone who he believed was loyal to him and was also welcome with the other families.

Jackson stood from his seat, downing the last dredges of his coffee. “Anyway, we better start getting dressed. I arranged for us to meet Bambam in just over an hour.”

Jackson shut the door softly behind him and Mark let the room fall into stillness again. It was silly, Mark realised, to think that he could talk about Jinyoung with Jackson at this point. Too much bad blood and not a good enough reason to salvage anything. And that left him no one else he could confide in. Jackson had been his closest and, for a long time, his only friend. Swept up in something he didn’t want to call the four-letter word, Mark had spilled out his soul to Jackson; too blinded by how happy he was to see the furrow in Jackson’s eyebrows, the down tilt of his mouth. When he’d crashed and burned, he’d seen the ‘I told you so’ in Jackson’s eyes. He refused to see it again.

His parents had never known. There were no words graphic or explicit enough to describe what his father would’ve done to him if he had found out. The families didn’t mix. There had been boundaries. Mark had lain awake at night as a teen, searching for where the feeling of wrong should’ve been in him. It wasn’t there, never had been. And even though he’d continued to try, night after night, to find the off switch, find the kill button for what he felt, he’d only ended up stoking the fire in his chest, fuelling his heart with what felt just so right to him.

 _Marry a good girl with a good heart,_ his father’s voice spoke so loudly in Mark’s head it was like he was standing in the office with him. _Enough good to balance out the bad you’ll eventually have in your life._

 _I thought I had found someone good, Papa,_ Mark told his father, or the version of his father he’d created in his head. _But it hadn’t been a girl. And now, I’m not sure if the good was ever there._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The neon white light sign outside, switched off during the day, shaped in fancy, cursive font already left Mark with a sleazy taste in his mouth. Although, that might have been the scents of piss and day-old takeaway wafting up and down the grimy street.

A name like _Silk_ should’ve instilled class in Mark’s mind; a reputable establishment (as reputable as you can get with strippers and drugs dripping from its pores) with a degree of elegance and refinement. However, the chipped away paint job and trash-covered entrance lowered Mark’s confidence more and more by every second.

Mark grimaced. “I feel like I need a shower just from looking at this place.”

Jackson snorted a laugh, nodding in agreement whilst throwing his cigarette to the ground and squashing it with his shoe.

It just didn’t compute in Mark’s head; a man like his father owning a club like this. He almost felt embarrassed to be associated with the establishment, despite it currently being his highest earning asset at that moment. People were beginning to stare, window curtains twitching and whispers trailing out from surrounding shops and restaurants, and Mark nudged Jackson for the two of them to head inside.

Mindless EDM music reverberated around the room as the two men removed their suit jackets, sweat from the clammy heat almost instantaneously sticking their shirts to their bodies. Almost pitch black apart from the underlit bar and the pink and blue neon lights around the pole-dancing stage, Mark could forgive anyone who would miss the worn tiles, flaky wall paint and patched upholstery. Instead of the sophistication Mark had expected, the club had what he could only call a ‘fake-fancy’ aura to it. Acrylic chandeliers, faux leather chaises and electric candles flickering in plastic jars. A strange, sour smell hung in the room. Mark tugged wearily at his tie; he already hated the place.

Men in cheap nylon shirts and unfitted trousers surrounded the stage, hats tipped just over their faces that they could see the dancer but no one could see them. Lonely men with hungry eyes. Mark’s skin crawled.

“Mark fucking Tuan!”

Mark’s eyes bulged.

A tall young man, even taller than Mark by a few inches, with glowing silver hair charged towards him, buckle strap ankle boots clicking obnoxiously against the tiles. He looked like a stranger; definitely not like the tiny, dishevelled 13-year-old who had stumbled through Mark’s front door ten years ago. He blinked at the sequined suit jacket, velvet choker and heart shaped sunglasses and had to admit that the Thai native was the only thing that had any style in the entire club.

Bambam threw his arms into the air, gesturing magnificently. “Welcome to Silk! You looking for a girl or a line?”

Mark grimaced at him and the younger man bellowed a laugh, doubling over and slapping his knee. He was as loud as Mark remembered and Mark was unsure whether that was a comforting familiarity or a goddamn nightmare.

Stopping in front of the two men, Bambam beamed widely and placed a hand on both Mark and Jackson’s shoulders, directing them through the club and into the back office. The door shut behind them and finally the deafening music was drowned out to a low pulse. Bambam took Mark’s hand and shook it profusely.

“It’s been too long, man, too long.”

Mark barely cracked a smile. ‘Too long’ was naïve; a way to minimise the damage the years before had done. ‘Too long’ tried to wipe away sins that Mark still felt the sting of.

Mark returned Bambam’s handshake, face colder than stone. “I didn’t see you at the house after my father’s funeral.”

The shining, audacious personality shrivelled up and, for a second, Bambam the club owner fell away and the boy Mark remembered stood before him.

“It didn’t feel… appropriate.” Bambam faltered uncertainly, not really knowing where he stood with Mark. “I wanted to pay my respects but... I haven’t been to the house since I sorted myself out and… it just didn’t feel right.”

A place in Mark’s chest ached at the fact that Bambam didn’t feel welcome at his house; an ache that remembered the two boys when they were 13 and 16 years old, skateboarding through the park and spending hours video gaming together. Mark, and his family, had welcomed Bambam into their home, into their lives, and he had thrown it back in their faces. Things had obviously changed, considering Bambam was now in charge of his father’s only club, but Bambam had broken his mother’s heart and Mark felt her pain more than his own.

“Mama would’ve wanted you there.” It was the truth, Mark was sure of it, but he meant it as a dig. And Bambam had felt it, flinching almost as violently as if Mark had slapped him.

“She very well may have,” Bambam poked his cheek out with his tongue, sensing an argument that he didn’t want to have coming, “but I would take a guess that you probably feel very differently.”

Mark titled his head with a sardonic grin. “I guess you’re right. You don’t get to choose when to walk back in when it was your decision to walk out.” 

With a defeated sigh, Bambam pushed his fringe back with his sunglasses. “The drugs walked me out of that door. I wasn’t myself, Mark, I was… I was fucked up and it was killing Mama to see me like that. I wasn’t ready to go cold turkey so I left instead.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of excuses to me.”

Somewhere in his conscience, Mark knew his attitude was bordering cruelly unfair. Bambam had to make the choice to turn his life around and it had reached a point where living under the Tuans’ roof was enabling him. But something had cracked. Mark could sense the fracture; the trust, the confidence, the faith, had disintegrated.

Bambam snapped.

“You have no fucking idea what I went through.”

“No, I don’t.” Mark conceded. “But I know what my parents went through. You stole from them, you trashed the house, your behaviour even brought the cops sniffing ‘round! I sat through the phone calls, Mama sobbing because she had no idea where you were. They thought you were _dead,_ Bambam.”

“I might as well have been!” Bambam yelled and the room seemed to fall silent despite the thump of the music outside.

“After I left, I had nowhere to go.” He stumbled over his words, voice thick and choked. “I slept in gutters night after night, shivering and sweating, vomiting even when I had nothing in my stomach, barely able to fucking _breathe_ , and all I wanted was for it to end.”

Mark watched the younger silently, guilt clawing its way up his throat. If he hadn’t left, if he’d been here, if he could’ve pulled Bambam back from the precipice…

If, if, if, so many ifs.

If his father hadn’t died.

Ifs thrived in the past; Mark was in the here and now. He couldn’t dwell. He was tired of taking steps back when everyone else was running forward straight past him.

Compelled forward, Mark abruptly gripped Bambam’s hands in his. “I wasn’t here. I should’ve been.”

Bambam stared at him, dark kohl-rimmed eyes watering. “I wanted to make Papa proud.”

Mark’s eyes slammed shut, his hands beginning to shake.

The younger’s voice was but a whisper. “I miss him.”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t make his lips mouth the words, but it was there; that gaping hole where a part of him had once been. He felt the same.

He remembered the night Bambam had entered his life, standing in between his parents in the doorway, soaked to the bone, shivering violently, wide eyes blinking up at Mark. He still didn’t know all the details; his parents kept a lot of what they knew about Bambam to themselves and the Thai boy had never felt comfortable sharing how he’d ended up on the streets of Seoul. But Mark had come to love him just as much as he loved his blood sister. At school, Mark had beaten up a group of sixteen-year-old kids he’d heard snickering over racist jokes directed at Bambam. He’d walked home with a black eye, Bambam fretting at his side, and had come to the realisation that the kid had joined the tiny, elite group of people he would kill for.  

“Okay,” Mark cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, raising the mask back over his face. “Let’s get into business, shall we?”

Bambam nodded, heading towards the chair before a throat clear from Jackson stopped him.

“You might wanna let the boss sit in the big chair.” Jackson suggested, grinning wickedly. Bambam glanced back and forth between the two men with a stumped look until his eyes widened in understanding.

“Of course.” The younger dragged the chair backwards and gestured for Mark to sit. “Go right ahead, boss.”

There was nothing that needed to be clarified with Bambam. He knew exactly what the title ‘boss’ meant in their world. It changed the whole situation; the entire atmosphere shifted. Mark had allowed the boldness and the shouting because it had been so long and the two brothers needed to right themselves. But they both knew that behaviour wouldn’t be tolerated from that moment on; not even a Don’s brother could speak out of turn.

“What I wanna know…” Mark sat in the grey fabric chair, smoothing his hands over the arms, “is why the hell did Papa give you this place?”

Bambam chuckled, pouring three glasses of Hennessey and handing them out. “I know what you’re thinking. This place doesn’t seem like Papa at all. And honestly? I don’t think it was.”

Mark’s eyebrows wrinkled together and he glanced over at Jackson who shrugged in reply.

“We only got this place a few weeks before the crash.” The room dipped into silence for a second before Bambam continued.

“Papa left me a voicemail one morning asking me to go check this place out and when I showed up, Tony was already here and handed over the keys to me. I never spoke to Papa about Silk; he never brought it up in conversation and anything I needed went through Tony.”

The club began to seem more and more questionable to Mark. His father had been a hands-on businessman; no decisions were made in relation to his dealings without his approval. To hand over an entire club to one of the youngest in the family and have no hand in it at all? It didn’t add up. And, especially, the mention of Tony raised all of Mark’s suspicions.

“None of us have seen or heard from Tony in weeks.” Jackson spoke Mark’s thoughts out loud.

Tony had held the highly-revered position of consigliere to Don Tuan for as long as Mark could remember and been a close family friend for even longer. Tony was ‘Uncle Tony’ to Mark; he came for dinner every holiday and bought the Tuan kids Christmas presents. A clever, perceptive man, Tony was as merciless as he was intelligent. If Jackson was the one person Mark trusted the most in the world, Tony had been the same for his father. His disappearance just a few weeks before the car crash was unexplainable to most of the family. He’d fallen completely off the radar, contacting not a soul, not even his own wife.

Mark nodded. “He was my father’s consigliere, of course, but my father would never have someone represent him on a new business venture. He would’ve been here and involved every step of the way.”

“Something just doesn’t fit.” Jackson frowned, lighting a cigarette. “If your father didn’t want a place like this then why’d he get it?”

“Maybe he thought it could be a pet project for you.” Mark gestured at Bambam. “Prepare you to take over if I didn’t come back.”

The younger shook his head strongly. “You know he would’ve been here with me if he was trying to teach me to eventually take over. It felt more like… maybe not Papa but _someone_ … was getting me out of the way.”

_“They didn’t just come in through the back door. They were already here.”_

Jinyoung’s voice rang in Mark’s head, nudging him further towards his greatest fear. That someone close to his father had premeditatively murdered him in some sort of twisted grasp for power. It made Mark want to look over his shoulder, check the shadows to see who was watching him. It felt like a target had been placed precisely in the middle of his back. He thought of his nightmare the night before, the tombstone with his name on it, waiting for him, and he shuddered.

“Yakuza have been swimming around here too. Tried to meet with me a few times to offer me a deal.” Bambam revealed, waggling his hand at Jackson for a cigarette who handed one over reluctantly.

Mulling over his jumbled thoughts, Mark leaned back and stared up at the cracked ceiling. A few weeks before his death, it seemed like his father had taken a huge step back from his work. The idea bothered Mark, niggling at his mind like a worm. His father sounded like a completely different person; not the man Mark had grown up idolising. Something had changed. At some point before his murder, his father had completely changed his priorities and there _had_ to be a reason for it. 

“Just… keep doing what you’re doing here.” Mark instructed Bambam. “It’s obviously working.”

Mark rose from the chair, signalling at Jackson to do the same.

The trust may have been fractured but Mark knew that Omertà, the family, the love that was still there, that would never go away, would hold them together like glue.

Pausing in the doorway, Mark looked back at Bambam, at the flashy and extravagant exterior, and smiled. “And stop by the house some time, brother. Mama’ll cook you something good.”

It was something; a step, not backwards to how things were but forward to how things could be, and Bambam smiled back.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

With a heaving sigh, Mark threw himself into the dark brown leather couch in the sitting room of his house, lifting his legs lethargically onto the coffee table.

“Hey, you’re huffing over there as if _you’re_ the one carrying a baby inside you, can I get a lil help over here?”

Liv, one hand on her hip whilst the other cupped her rounded stomach, smirked playfully at her younger brother, before waving a hand in the air obnoxiously for assistance.

Mark shook his head at her in exasperation. “You told me yesterday not to treat you like porcelain and now you can’t even walk from over there to the couch?”

“Fine, I’ll waddle over by myself.” Liv grumbled, lowering herself slowly onto the sofa before melting into the cushions with a relieved sigh.

“Don’t suppose I could get a foot massage? My ankles are so swollen, they look like pepperoni sticks.” Liv wiggled her feet at Mark suggestively, cackling at his grossed-out expression.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, get those sausage toes up here.”

Throwing her head back with uproarious laughter, Liv manoeuvred her feet into Mark’s lap and relaxed back into the sofa.

“You decided what to call him yet?” Mark asked, mulling over the fact that he was going to become an uncle in the coming weeks. Liv had always been the more free-spirited Tuan sibling; nothing and no one had seemed to tie her down in one place. However, nearly eight months ago, Mark had returned to his L.A. apartment from work to a phone call that Liv had fallen in love and was expecting a baby. It was the first urge he’d had to jump on a flight home in years.

“No idea, little bro.” Liv exhaled, eyes fluttering as fatigue settled in her bones. “I’m taking recommendations.”

Mark grinned down at her and wondered how the hell she was ready to become a mother. Even though she was the eldest sibling, she had always had an immature, eternally young spirit in her. She had grown up so suddenly. Maybe she wasn’t ready at all. Maybe she was absolutely terrified and just really good at hiding it. He was familiar with the feeling.

“Where’d you just get back from?” Liv inquired, pulling her sandy brown hair back into a loose ponytail.

Mark hesitated for a moment. “I… I went to see Bambam.”

Liv’s hands froze in her hair, her eyes staring down at her lap before looking up at Mark, impassive but with an edge of grief. “You… how is he?”

“He’s good.” Mark answered, choosing his words carefully. “He’s been clean for a while and he looks… he’s got his shit together.”

Liv stewed on that information for a while, chewing her bottom lip in thought. Like Mark, she had formed her own bond with Bambam; she had attended the social worker meetings with their parents and had even taught Bambam how to swim. However, to her core, Liv was a mama’s girl and Bambam’s spiral into addiction had forced her to choose sides.

“Some of the men who work at the club kept me updated after he cut us off but I didn’t know…” Liv paused, swallowing heavily. “I’m glad to hear he’s good.”

“If I’m gonna do this…” Mark started; he didn’t need to be explicit about what he meant, Liv understood what Mark was undertaking. “Then I need Bambam. Papa may have thrown him out but I need him on my side. I need him back with us.”

“You think Papa didn’t try?” Liv challenged, her cheeks red with indignant heat. “He wanted Bambam back just as much as you do but he knew Bambam would be prideful. He knew Bambam would want to prove himself worthy of coming back to this family. Something to show his dedication to us. Why do you think he gave Bambam the club?”

Mark stayed silent, refusing to divulge the niggling concerns he felt about Silk and the reason behind his father’s decision to buy it. He had already decided that he wanted to mend his relationship with Bambam, he wanted the younger man in his life; however, he refused to let Bambam walk back through the front door unless it was on his family’s terms.

Liv sighed, rubbing a hand over her bump tenderly. “It doesn’t feel right without him here. And I’ve been craving his homemade banana bread.”

“You’re an ass.” Mark snorted, squeezing his sister’s ankle affectionately. It was the closest he was going to get to a ‘bring Bambam home’ from his sister but it didn’t matter how she said it. He heard her loud and clear.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Savouring a sip of bourbon, Mark listened wordlessly to Jackson and Youngjae discuss potential arms dealings, critically analysing the strengths and weaknesses of a possible partner in Singapore. The scent of Mama’s spicy beef soup wafted through the house, wrapping its inhabitants in a fiery warmth.

“He’s the first person I’ve been able to get to before the fucking Yakuza.” Jackson fumed, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air.

Youngjae coughed discreetly into his hand. “How did they find out all our solid connections? It’s like they’ve managed to snatch everyone up in the gap between Dons.”

Mark continued to sit silently, too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Youngjae recognised something drawing Mark’s curiosity; traders his father had associated with for years were either unwilling to work with Mark from lack of confidence in his reputation or were already tied up with the Japanese. They even knew about his father’s club, already trying to tie Bambam to them. Secrets of the family had been spilled and Mark smelt a rat from a mile away. He thought of Tony and felt irrationally angry towards him. Where was he? The older man had disappeared and left his father vulnerable, open to attacks without his right-hand man. He wished Tony were here to give him any answers, to somehow make sense of this mess.

“Don.” One of the men knocked sharply on the door before entering, shoulders rigid and face grave.

Mark looked up, frustrated at the interruption. “Jun? What’s the problem? As you can see, we’re quite busy.”

“One of the boys from Gwangjin called.” Jun’s face paled like his stomach had turned. “They said…”

Mark’s nerves electrified and he snapped impatiently. “Spit it out!”

“They said that Sammy was found dead a few hours ago.”

All noise died out, even the clattering in the kitchen went quiet. The air in the room seemed to escape out of the windows and Mark panted under his breath frantically. _How? I… I spoke to him on the phone just this morning…_

“They found him in an alleyway.” Jun continued, stumbling over his words as he felt the airtight pressure in the room. “He was… he was shot through the mouth, boss.”

Shot through the mouth. _To shut him up,_ Mark’s mind whispered.

He’d let this happen. He’d let that kid; that young, naïve, inexperienced kid walk into the wolves’ den alone. This was his fault. If he hadn’t been so rash, so impulsive, if he’d let his bloodthirst and revenge take the back seat and thought rationally…

If, if, if.

“Call his mother.” Mark managed to choke out. “Send her good word and tell her I’ll visit soon.”

Good word wasn’t actually words at all but a substantial amount of money; compensation for a person’s sacrifice for the family. Money was all he could really give the poor woman. He’d taken her son, her baby, from her. He wouldn’t blame her if she spat on the money, spat on his name. He’d do exactly the same in her shoes.

Jun nodded and left the room, gently shutting the door behind him before the room plunged into an oppressive hush. Guilt tugged at Mark’s feet like weights, dragging him down into the ocean, filling his lungs with water.

“He was a good kid.” Jackson broke the silence, lifting his glass of bourbon in a cheer of respect before downing its contents.

 _Was_ a good kid. God, Mark felt fucking sick with himself. Was he sending people to their deaths? Should he be out there instead, risking his own life to find out what had happened to his father? Sure, these people had sworn loyalty to his family, grown up being associated with his family, but they weren’t blood. However, the longer Mark thought about it, the more enraged he became. Sammy died for the truth and someone had blood on their hands to hide it. He couldn’t let this go. He couldn’t do that one last injustice to Sammy.

“I haven’t got much time,” Mark finally spoke up, attracting the attention of both men in the office. “I have an appointment tonight so let’s get things sorted.”

“Appointment?” Jackson questioned, eyes already darkening from his guess. “With who?”

Mark stared back at the other, unwilling to be made to feel like a fool. “Jinyoung. I’m meeting with Jinyoung.”

Jackson scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I owe him for the information he gave me. Don’t make this a big deal.” Mark explained, kicking himself for even thinking he needed to give an explanation.

Of course, Jackson could question him but it had to be within reason. He wasn’t a goddamn dictator, but it should be on business matters, not personal. He felt like the younger man was crossing an imaginary line they had drawn but, then again, Jinyoung had always been a touchy topic between the two.

“As your consigliere,” Jackson shook his head, his distaste clear, “I have to advise you that this is a dumbass idea.”

“That’s enough.” Mark ordered, his loud, harsh tone quashing any other objections. He’d obviously pissed Jackson off if the stormy eyes and tense shoulders were anything to go by. Youngjae looked back and forth between the two men, chewing on his thumbnail anxiously as if watching an intense tennis match. But there was no match, no battle; the Don had spoken and that was the end of it.

“Youngjae,” Mark addressed him, the younger practically standing to attention, “I want you to go to the family meeting for me.”

“What?!” Both Youngjae and Jackson blurted out simultaneously, staring at Mark in incredulity.

Mark downed the last dredges of his bourbon before folding his hands atop each other. “I trust you. But, more importantly, _Jaebum_ trusts you.”

A blush burst out across Youngjae’s cheeks and he dipped his head, avoiding eye contact with Mark. It’s not like Mark was exaggerating; Jaebum had always had a soft spot for Youngjae. He knew because Jaebum had stopped speaking to him for six months in school when he’d found out Youngjae wanted to eventually become Mark’s capo and not his. Many might disagree with Youngjae’s presence at the meeting but Jaebum would vouch for him and, amongst the families, Jaebum’s word was practically law.

His father’s friendship with Arthur Choi, Youngjae’s father, had been an important link in the functioning of the Tuan family business and Mark wished to continue that with Youngjae. The young man had followed Mark closely since they were kids, sticking next to his side like a loyal puppy. Youngjae had never betrayed him or given him reason to mistrust him; a promising combination for a reliable and faithful capo. Above all, Youngjae was family and Mark wanted him to be involved at the top. He needed to surround himself with those who wanted the best for him, those who wanted to see him succeed.

“Keep close to the back to be discreet.” Mark advised. “And even if someone calls you out, I know Jaebum will let you stay.”

Youngjae’s face contorted into an apprehensive frown and Mark didn’t have the time for second-guessing.

“I _need_ you to do this, Youngjae.”

Apparently, Mark had reached a low enough desperation for begging. Thoroughly humiliated, Mark leaned back, away from the two men across the desk from him and rubbed at his eyes roughly. Doors that had opened to get him towards who had killed his father kept slamming shut in his face. He didn’t trust anyone else enough to do this for him. If he didn’t get this information, his father had died for nothing. Sammy had died for nothing.

“Okay, sir.” Youngjae agreed, nodding with a new-found belief in himself. “I can do it.”

Mark sighed, his body deflating from relief. “Thank you, Youngjae. And I told you to quit that habit of calling me sir.”

Youngjae grinned and shook his head. “More than a habit, boss, you know that.”

Mark thought of Sammy, of the bright-eyed boy sitting across from him, voice squeaking from excitement to prove himself, calling Mark ‘boss’ too.

Habit or not, he was beginning to hate the word nearly as much as he hated himself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Even in his black fitted tux and expensive brogues, Mark felt underdressed for The Orchid.

“Sir, do you have a reservation?”

Mark cleared his throat, dropping his hands consciously from playing with his tie. “Park. Park Jinyoung.”

The waitress, a tall, stunning lady in a black cheongsam dress with pink detailing trailing across her waist like the vine of an orchid, smiled accommodatingly. “Right this way, sir.”

Following the waitress, Mark took a look around the lavish restaurant.

The place was opulence at its finest. Floor to ceiling digital mapping projections intersected between tables, playing images of koi fish swimming, blooming flowers and explosions of sparkling stars that looked so incredibly real Mark thought he could reach out and touch them. Origami orchids dangled from the ceiling, fluttering back and forth from the breeze of the air conditioning. Elaborate marble fountains sprayed water into pools filled with lily pads. Dark tiled walls and floorboards cast a sultry, seductive atmosphere over the room; the only sources of light from a few spread-out spotlights, burning candles atop the tables and the underlit bar.

Multiple tables of people recognised him, whispering to their dinner companions, eyes bulging with realisation or looking away out of respect or fear, Mark wasn’t entirely sure which. There didn’t seem to be a single place he could go anonymously; he would never blend into a crowd in Seoul again. He remembered all the eyes that would be on them as a family when they would go out for dinner years ago and he wondered how his father had been able to ignore it, to block it out and enjoy the evening. He missed the chaos of Los Angeles; the ability to disappear and the feeling of not knowing anyone and no one knowing him.

Rounding a corner, Mark spotted a table next to a large, bay window draped by a curtain of sparkling crystals, already occupied. A split-second gap opened; a miniscule moment where Mark could decide to turn back around, walk right out of the restaurant and forget the entire thing. He could come up with an excuse and avoid the inevitability of what would happen tonight. However, Jinyoung looked up from his glass of red wine, eyes widening for a second before fluttering as he smirked knowingly, and the gap slammed shut. Mark wouldn’t have been able to leave even if he’d wanted to try.

Lowering himself slowly into the elegant white velvet scoop chair, hackles already raised from the calculatingly smug expression on Jinyoung’s face, Mark accepted a menu from the waitress who dashed off to prepare another glass of wine. He could see the words but they weren’t computing in his head; his stomach too tied up in knots to imagine eating anything.

“I’ve heard the oysters are phenomenal here.” Jinyoung recommended, scanning the main courses. Mark had no reply; eyes fixated on Jinyoung’s plump, wine-stained lips. Glancing up from his menu at the silent response, Jinyoung raised his eyebrows at Mark and grinned because he knew, of course he knew.

“You know…” Jinyoung rested his chin on his hand and licked his lips and Mark watched every movement. “If I’m being honest—”

Snapping out of his stupor, Mark snorted. “You? Honest? Has Hell frozen over?”

“It can happen sometimes.” Jinyoung smiled almost serenely; Mark could still see the sharpness of its edges. “Anyway, as I was saying, if I’m being honest… I didn’t think you were going to show up.”

When Mark was six years old, he was certain that Jinyoung had been born with mind-reading powers. He could predict Mark’s moods, sometimes even without seeing him that day, and knew how to react accordingly. Mark was sad? Jinyoung showed up with a pot of ice cream. Mark was angry? Jinyoung took him to the skatepark to blow off some steam. Mark was anxious? Jinyoung knew the exact words to say to calm him down. He was intrinsically attuned to Mark’s temperament; the older could hide nothing from him. It was strange, but definitely not surprising, to find that, even with ten years spent apart, Jinyoung could still read Mark like a wide-open book.

“I owed you, didn’t I?”

 _Dumb, dumb, dumb_ , Mark berated himself. Why did he even bother with faux nonchalance when the two of them knew full well that Jinyoung could see right through it?

“You make this sound so… procedural.” Jinyoung grimaced, rolling his eyes at Mark’s formality. “You can try and actually enjoy tonight, if you want.”

It was a tempting offer; Mark hadn’t felt relaxed or enjoyed a stress-free night since he’d returned. Except, relaxing meant letting his guard down; a risk he couldn’t take knowing that Jinyoung was skilled in worming through the chinks of a person’s armour.

Returning to the table, the waitress served Mark a large glass of Vintage Bordeaux before taking their orders.

“I’ll have the pork loin, please.” Jinyoung handed the menu to the waitress, beaming up at her in his enchantingly charming way. It rubbed Mark the wrong way, it always had. He didn’t want to admit why it still had the same effect.

“I’ll have the steak, please. Medium rare.”

The waitress bowed, accepting Mark’s menu before rushing away to the kitchen.

“So…” Jinyoung twirled the wine glass in his hand slowly, watching the red liquid spin. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about the family meeting?”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I should be telling you about any future plans I’m making. How do I know you’re not reporting right back to your father?”

“My father and I are…” Jinyoung paused, pursing his lips, “…not exactly on great terms right now.”

Mark sensed the younger trying to seem casual but Jinyoung wasn’t the only perceptive one in their relationship. Strained smile, rigid shoulders and face smooth and void of lines or wrinkles; all indicators Mark had learnt to read as Jinyoung feeling upset and trying his best to hide it.

Mark sneered; talk of fathers had riled him up more than he’d expected. “Well, that’s strange. You’re such a daddy’s boy; he never sees any wrong in you. I wonder what had to have pissed him off that bad.”

Jinyoung watched Mark with a look whose meaning he’d never managed to decipher.

“You, actually.”

Absent of a quick response on the tip of his tongue, Mark just stared at Jinyoung incredulously.

“He never wanted to come to your father’s funeral.” Jinyoung continued, gazing out of the window at the rain pouring outside. “But I persuaded him, practically ripped him apart for how it would make him look if he didn’t go.”

Mark couldn’t look away from the other man, feeling that all too familiar sensation of being pulled in, unable to fight the inevitable current. “And what about you? Did _you_ want to come?”

After a few moments of heavy silence, Jinyoung looked away from the window and smiled, looking as young and radiant as the last day Mark had seen him ten years ago.

“I wanted to see you.”

_God fucking damnit._

Mark heaved a weighty sigh and closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at Jinyoung; he’d give everything away in a second.

“I had to find some way to approach you.” Jinyoung resumed, genuine appeal in his voice. “I couldn’t just walk up to you in front of the families, people talked so much already before you left…”

Mark had learnt to become truly skilled in the art of keeping secrets; living Omertà had taught him how to stick to the shadows and even lie to himself. But every secret had a time limit. Whispers of just how close he and Jinyoung were had hung around them like a threatening shroud, ready to whip back and expose them to the world at any second. Thankfully, their parents never heard a thing or, if they had, never mentioned it. Too much was at stake and, at the time, they were too young and reckless to care. Nothing had been serious in the beginning anyway. Of course, Mark had learnt to become exceptionally good at lying to himself.

Holographs of stars raining down lit up across the window, pouring light down the glass, mixing with the raindrops outside.

“I’m not against you, Mark.”

It felt like the truth, or was it just what Mark wanted to hear? He’d thrown the handbook of how to read Jinyoung out of the window the day he’d stepped on that plane, thinking he’d never need it again, he’d never be back here to know the cues. It was like learning to swim or ride a bike again; the grooves were there from before but he just didn’t know how to use them. It felt like being back in L.A., people talking to him in English, words that sounded like they had meaning, had substance, except Mark had not one clue what they were saying. He and Jinyoung were lost in translation, despite speaking the same language.

Mark opened his eyes to find Jinyoung still staring at him. “But you’re not with me either.”

Jinyoung blinked several times in confusion until understanding dawned on his face. Before Mark and Jinyoung, there had been Park and Tuan. There would always be Park and Tuan; two families, on opposing ends, never seeing eye to eye. It was an indisputable fact of life. Even if they had embraced over the fence at one point, the fence had still been there. It was still there. Mark on one side and Jinyoung on the other. A fence of family, duty, responsibility, expectations. A fence of blood, of oaths, of binding promises that could never be broken. The fence was there now, driving a forge across the table separating the two men as if they were still an ocean apart. 

“What do you expect, Mark?” Jinyoung demanded, throwing his hands up before dropping them to the table, shaking it slightly. “Me to swear loyalty to you? I can try to help you, Mark, but you know where my allegiances are.”

“I’m not asking you to join me or swear to me, Jinyoung, I just want you to be _honest_ with me.” Mark pleaded, beating his hands against Jinyoung’s wall. _Let me in!_

Jinyoung’s face screwed up; hostile and indignant. “Well, life isn’t that easy, I’m afraid. I have responsibilities just like you do. I took Omertà to my _family._ ”

“I _was_ your family.” Mark spat and the table fell silent. He was incensed that Jinyoung would disregard him like he had been nothing to him. No matter what Jinyoung tried to preach, they, at one time, had been each other’s family. Maybe not by blood, or by oath, but they had been bonded beyond a simple friendship.

“I know, Jinyoung.” Mark snapped, the timeworn resentment sour in his mouth. “I don’t need to be told again who you’re loyal to. You made yourself perfectly clear a decade ago.”

Jinyoung’s eyes flashed cuttingly. “Don’t throw that in my face. You know there was nothing I could’ve done.”

Mark stopped himself, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue that he knew would do damage and prevent any progress between the two of them. They’d drawn their lines in the sand years ago and there was nothing they could do about it now.

 _No if’s,_ Mark repeated to himself. _No if’s._

“Cosa Nostra isn’t how you remember it ten years ago, Mark.” Jinyoung’s gaze, gravely intense, unnerved Mark. “Loyalty means nothing to desperate men.”

Even without Jinyoung’s warning, Mark could tell the culture had changed whilst he’d been away. A family’s foundation had always been respect and Mark could feel that foundation shaking. A desperate man had arranged his father’s murder; a man who should’ve respected Don Tuan, a man who possibly broke his oath to the family he belonged to. But, like Jinyoung had said, loyalty meant nothing to men like that.

“You can’t just expect me to drop the fact that my father was murdered.” Mark knew exactly what Jinyoung was trying to insinuate. He probably thought that Mark had no idea what he was getting into. He had no idea that Mark had become resigned to his fate.  

“I would never.” Jinyoung assured, unconsciously gripping the stem of his wine glass. “But you are playing with fire, Mark, and you are going to get burnt. Some doors just shouldn’t be opened.”

For a moment, a surge of outraged anger coursed through Mark’s body before he realised that in a way, in Jinyoung’s own special, albeit elusive, way, the younger was trying to tell him he was worried. Worried for Mark. And it felt nice; it felt like when they were sixteen and Jinyoung chewed at his nails anxiously whilst watching Mark try a new, dangerous board trick at the park. It was, finally, a feeling he was used to with Jinyoung and, for the first time since he’d stepped off the plane at Seoul Airport, he felt home.

“I appreciate your concern,” Mark acknowledged, smirking with a pinch of teasing, and Jinyoung pulled a face at him, cheeks glowing red, “but I’ve already made my decision.”

Jinyoung opened his mouth, ready to fight tooth and nail to get Mark to see the light, before nodding silently in reluctant acceptance. He knew Mark could be just as stubborn as he was, especially when it came to the people he loved.

“And even though I know where your loyalties lie,” Mark continued, laying his cards on the table, “I would still welcome your support, in any way you can give it.”

The younger stared at Mark intently, looking troubled and nervous. “I can’t make any promises.”

Grinning good-humouredly, Mark leaned his elbows on the table, moving closer into Jinyoung’s space. “Where’s your ‘family helps family’, huh?”

Jinyoung stilled, eyes black and fathomless. “Don’t trust anyone who tells you that.”

The laughter in Mark’s body died and a stony silence fell over the two. Before he could ask Jinyoung’s meaning, the waitress reappeared with two plates of steaming hot food, shattering the almost eerie atmosphere.

Cutlery clattering on china plates filled the quietness of the table, letting Mark reflect as he chewed on the delectable steak. He was tired of the stubborn antagonism between the two of them; it exhausted him and left a hollow feeling in his chest. There was no avoiding their issues, or their past, that was for certain, but when would they just stop running in circles? When would they get it right for once?

Maybe they were never meant to get it right; Mark could admit he’d had the thought more than a few times. Maybe the universe was working against them; a clear message from the cosmos to leave things be and move on with their lives. But, all he’d need is to see Jinyoung’s smile one more time, and Mark would take the entire world on. He’d fight all of space and time to the death rather than deny what his heart truly felt.

Then again, if he was going to fight, he’d need to know Jinyoung would fight with him. And he had learnt ten years ago that Jinyoung chose not to pick this battle.

“Tell me,” Jinyoung began, placing his cutlery down and taking a sip of wine, “if you’re here to stay, what’s the plan? You’re Don now, how do you plan on expanding your empire?”

Mark had to think for a moment, chewing slowly. He’d been looking at his future through tunnel vision; unable to see anything apart from finding out who murdered his father. After that…

Mark chuckled. “I honestly have no idea.”   

There was no rulebook he could follow, no mentor who could teach him the ins and outs. He had Jackson whose knowledge had its limits and family men around him to carry out his work but, apart from that, he was on his own.

“I don’t want to disrespect the traditions,” Mark explained, trying to word his recent thoughts, “but I also think the family needs to move in a new, fresh direction.”

Jinyoung grinned, resting his chin on his hands with a pleased hum. “Innovative. I like it.”

Mark rolled his eyes playfully, his chest already puffing out at Jinyoung’s praise.

“There’s room in the real estate and energy markets that could make some real money. Bars, restaurants, film and television production… so many opportunities my father was too stuck in his ways to take.”

He made the ventures sound like a piece of cake, however, he knew making the move would shake up the community like never before. Expansion looked, to most rival families, like an attempt at domination and backlash was almost guaranteed. Despite all that, Mark wanted to do his father’s name proud and, deep down, he wanted to carve out his own name in the community too. A selfish part of him didn’t want to be Don Richard Tuan’s son anymore; it wanted to be Don Mark Tuan in his own right.

Jinyoung smiled, eyes sparkling like the holographic stars falling down the window. “You’re a hard worker, Mark. Whatever you put your mind to will astound us all, I’m sure of it.”

The sincerity should’ve warmed Mark’s heart but, instead, it stabbed at it, reminding him of where the two of them were at now.

“What about you?” Mark asked, eyebrows raised in intrigue. “You’ll eventually take over the family business. What are your plans as future Don Park?”

“I was just going to continue my father’s work.” Jinyoung admitted, chewing his bottom lip. “My father has quite strict orders of how he wants the family business to continue after him.”

Mark resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not wanting to upset Jinyoung by disrespecting his father. It was no secret that Mark hated the man; detested him for years because of how he treated Jinyoung. Both of their fathers had been preparing their sons for eventually taking over the family, however, his father had never suppressed his potential like Jinyoung’s father had. Through intimidation, threat and punishment, Don Park had kept his son in a box, making sure he had no funny ideas about doing anything else with his life apart from inheriting the business. His father had obviously wanted the same for Mark but he’d never stopped his son from doing what he enjoyed; he’d joined the basketball club and an after-school photography class during school. Jinyoung would follow along but never participate, watching from the side-lines with a longing in his eyes that fuelled Mark’s anger.

For years, Mark had watched Jinyoung’s potential be squandered; his knack for writing wasted, his beautiful singing voice unused. A bird trapped in a cage, Mark had yearned to watch Jinyoung fly; soar far above the constraints that held him down and broke him slowly. Mark refused to believe that day would never come but Jinyoung had given up on himself long ago. For all of Jinyoung’s show of confidence, insecurity ravaged his spirit and would be his ultimate downfall. Mark had thought at one point he could’ve been Jinyoung’s saviour; his knight in shining armour who would whisk him away and let him flourish. Once again, Mark had been so wrong.

“When you become Don,” Mark started, stomach twisting with apprehension, “are we going to become the same as our fathers?”

Jinyoung swallowed his mouthful of food slowly and stared down at the table, unable to lift his head. In a split second, rash decision, Mark reached across the table and took Jinyoung’s hand in his, gripping it tightly, forgetting anyone around them who could see, who might know who they were. They were the only two people in the room to him.

“I don’t want to be your rival, Jinyoung. I don’t want to be your enemy.”

_I want to be so much more._

The words were there; Jinyoung heard them as if Mark had said them out loud. Gulping audibly, Jinyoung squeezed Mark’s hand before retracting his own, leaving Mark’s hand empty and cold atop the table.

“I don’t want to be either. But that’s what it’s going to come to, isn’t it?”

They had talked once, in the middle of a winter night, wrapped up in sheets and each other, about whether they believed in fate and destiny. Mark had never really thought about the subject before but, when faced with it, he decided that he made his own decisions, he chose where his path would lead. Perhaps that was influenced by his relationship with power and his father but he wanted control over his life more than anything else. He believed it was his right; the right of the universe to let a free person determine their own future.

Jinyoung had considered him for a moment before laughing softly, hand covering his mouth, a habit Mark had always hated. He’d pulled away Jinyoung’s hand and watched his crinkled eyes and huge smile tenderly before asking him what was so funny. Jinyoung had told him that he’d never met a more naïve person in his life. He’d said that there would always be powers greater than him, greater than both of them, greater than the entire human race. Powers that shaped the world and how we saw it.

 _“Whoever or whatever put us on this earth has a plan for us,”_ Jinyoung had murmured, keeping his voice low enough to avoid his parents hearing. “ _And no matter how hard we try to fight it, we walk the path that was intended for us from the start.”_

They had kissed and the conversation had been forgotten, blurring into the many memories Mark had of them together. They had been teenagers then; too absorbed in their own world to see the rest of the world around them. Jinyoung’s fatalism should’ve scared him then but, just like every other warning that had come Mark’s way when it came to Jinyoung, he’d ignored it.

Now, sitting across from Jinyoung a decade later, a part of his soul ached for the younger man. At the cage he was still trapped in; his wings no longer fluttering, too exhausted to try and break free. He still wanted to be his knight in shining armour, to take him away from it all.

He just didn’t know how to anymore.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh sammy :(  
> so a lil more is revealed about mark and jinyoung's relationship!! lemme know what you think about how that's gonna progress, if they really can have a relationship despite their families and responsibilities. also lemme know what you think about how bambam plays into this and what's going to happen with the yakuza! your feedback is really appreciated :)
> 
> until next week!


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! here's chapter 4! I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!  
> chapter warning - allusions to violence/description of injury

 

 

As the Escalade pulled away from the The Orchid, Mark tried to organise his thoughts and feelings into something that made sense. In one night, his perception of Jinyoung, and where they stood with each other, had completely changed. He felt like he was standing on shaky soil, unsure of how long the ground underneath him would last before he went plummeting down. Were they on good terms? Were they allies? Were they even friends? He still didn’t have any answers.

The day he had landed in Los Angeles, standing in the middle of an airport full of strangers, most of whom didn’t even speak the same language as him, Mark had checked his phone for the first time since he’d left home. Missed phone calls ranged from his father, mother, Jackson, Bambam and a few from Yugyeom and other school friends. His texts were even worse; message after message of questions, demands, worries and tirades. He didn’t read any of them apart from one.

_Jinyoungie:_

_You walked away. Remember that._

In the middle of the airport, Mark had let out an almighty yell, loaded with rage and pain. Everyone around him had jumped and stared at him, eyes bulging at the weird foreigner’s outburst. He didn’t take notice of them, didn’t care how he looked to them; he was too engulfed in his own heartache. There was no turning back after that text. He thought the ties had been severed. Wiped out in two sentences.

There was still resentment in his heart at the way it had ended, at how Jinyoung had dumped the blame at Mark’s feet and refused to accept any responsibility. He may have been the one who bought the plane ticket, the one who had put an ocean between them, but Jinyoung was definitely not wholly innocent either. Things had spiralled so out of control and when Jinyoung had been faced with a decision, he didn’t choose Mark.

That was the bitch of it all, Mark snorted bitterly to himself. It wasn’t like they had been powerless. Jinyoung had been given a choice and he’d made it. And it wasn’t Mark. It spoke louder than any words ever could.

Because Mark would choose Jinyoung over it all, every time, no matter the consequences.

Jinyoung just couldn’t do the same.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mark had not stepped foot in a church since he’d left Seoul.

Sunday service had been a given in the Tuan family household. Iron-starched clothes and slicked back hair, the Tuan family had been, ironically, the modicum of decorum and respectability at their local Church of Christ.

His mother had grown up in a religious household; Mark had attended church with his maternal grandparents multiple times as a child. They were entwined with the church; his grandfather had been a pastor and his grandmother had led the church choir. Mark had even served as altar boy as a young boy once or twice, at the behest of his grandparents. That was why he found it so strange that his mother’s parents had not only gone along with their daughter’s marriage to Richard Tuan but had actively approved of him and loved him dearly.

He’d never had the chance to ask his grandparents how they had come to peace with that; how they’d accepted a man with blood on his hands into their family whilst trying to continue upholding their religious morals. They had died when he was young and the family had continued to attend church so Mark had let the question go, wanting to honour his grandparents’ memory instead of questioning their moral integrity.

However, he had once, as a teenager, asked his father why he attended church, how he could be a religious man in his line of work. He remembered the session his Sunday school teacher had taught his class about sin; the consequences we as God-fearing followers face. He remembered what the Scripture said. _The fruit of sin is death, the soul that sins will die, sin is the transgression of the law._ What did his father face because of what he had committed?

Puffing on a cigar, his father had watched him for a moment, considering, before ruffling Mark’s gel-spiked hair fondly, much to Mark’s disdain who’d tried to fluff his hair back in place with a grumble.

“I sin, that much is true,” Mark’s father had answered, “but I speak to Him about it. When I go to confession, I bear my soul to Him and He takes me for who I am. Hand me my Bible, boy.”

Don Tuan had pointed to the black, leather-bound book on the top shelf of his bookcase and Mark had retrieved it, placing it into his father’s hands with a reverence he instinctually felt when holding the Scriptures. From memory alone, his father had flipped the pages to what he was looking for and, even without the words before him, could read the verse off by heart.

_“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make Him a liar, and His word is not in us.”_

“I never lie to Him.” Don Tuan had finished, closing his Bible and smoothing his hand over the leather cover. “He understands my soul, even if no one on this earth does.”

Mark lowered himself into one of the pews and stared up at the stained-glass window portraying the baptism of Jesus. Light bounced off of the coloured glass, throwing rainbow patterns across the room, streaming up the rows of pews. Mark sat in the middle of it all, his black suit drowning in colour.

He had never truly understood his father or the man’s soul. And yet, he was still here, in the pew of his childhood church, watching the light of the stained-glass window fill the room and waiting for answers that would never come.

“Anyone coming here at this time of night must be a lost soul. You lost, boy?”

Mark’s head shot up from resting on his clasped hands, startled eyes scanning the man standing at the end of the pew.

“Mr Wang, you surprised me.”

“I don’t mean to intrude on your moment of solace, young Don.” Vincent Wang apologised, making his way up the row to sit one seat away from Mark.

Mark smiled, grateful for the company to calm the swell of thoughts in his mind. “I’d appreciate the company.”

Vincent turned his head up to the stained-glass window, watching the colour splash across the room. “I once found your father here in a similar position on a night quite like this.”

Mark spun his head to face the older man, the curiosity about his father’s early days almost insatiable. His father had been a closed-off man, unwilling to talk about when he assumed power and how he had built his empire from practically the ground up. He’d called them ‘lessons’ and promised Mark that he would tell all of his stories once he knew Mark was ready to take up the mantle of Don. Now, it seemed Mark would forever be in the dark about those days, scrambling for a light to help him see anything that could help.  

“He had just come from the hospital.” Vincent continued with a wistful smile, brushing his hands across the wooden pew in front of him. “He’d come to seek reassurance; reassurance that his new-born son would be clean of his sins and survive in the world he would eventually grow up in.”

Tears sprung in Mark’s eyes, he couldn’t help it; the idea that his father had sought his faith in the hopes of protecting him made Mark want to fall to his knees. He had prayed for his father every night growing up; prayed that he would return home that night, that he would hear the key in the lock and know his father was safe. He’d had no idea that his father had been praying for him too.

Reaching out, Vincent clapped his hand onto Mark’s shoulder, squeezing with a strength that held Mark together.

“You’ve been gone so long you’ve forgotten what this world feels like, what it does to your soul.”

The older man was righter than Mark liked to admit; after barely a few days back, he felt broken and bruised, tarnished to his core. How many times did he have to say, how many people did he have to tell, ‘I didn’t ask for this’. _I didn’t ask for this._

“Then what do I do?” Mark pleaded, voice cracking with desperation. “The families… it’s like vultures circling over me, waiting for me to show weakness. How do I get them to take me seriously?”

Vincent mused on the question for a long pause before gazing up at the baptism of Jesus. “He teaches my hands to make war, so that my arms can bend a bow of bronze. Psalm 18.”

Mark furrowed his brow at the older man and Vincent’s mouth tilted upward just slightly.

“Start bending.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I can’t believe you take your coffee black, you heathen.”  

Mark rolled his eyes at Jackson’s gibe, shuffling through the papers on his desk. He’d called an early meeting, much to Jackson’s disdain, wanting to throw himself into business as soon as possible. The office door swung open and the scent of French toast wafted in.

“I managed to pick up something to eat on the way here!” Youngjae leaned against the door, gaining his balance with his hands full of bagged breakfast. Jackson groaned in anticipation, making grabby hands at Youngjae for his toast. The group settled down at their desks, scarfing down breakfast before the meeting officially began.

After leaving the church last night, Mark had deliberated over Vincent Wang’s advice for hours. Was the older man recommending he make the first strike? Who should he be striking at? Mark was cornered by enemies; everywhere he looked there seemed to be someone who wanted to take him out for their own benefit. He needed to get at least one of these forces to back off; it would be a welcoming weight lifted off of him.

“Bambam said the Yakuza were still sniffing ‘round him, right?” Mark checked, a plan slowly forming in his mind.

Jackson looked up from his notebook, coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other, and squinted his eyes at Mark. “Yeah… why’d you ask?”

“I can’t have a battle on both fronts.” Mark rapped his fingers against his desk in thought. “I’m already outnumbered at home; combine that with the Yakuza’s aggressive overtures to Mr Choi and Bambam and I’ve already lost. If I can talk them down, get them to pull back even if for a couple of weeks, then I have a fairer chance of going up against the families.”

“And how are you going to do that? You gonna make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse?” Jackson joked with a delighted grin. Mark rolled his eyes; he definitely needed to dispose of Jackson’s movie collection.

The Yakuza were notoriously stubborn and hard to negotiate with. What did he have to offer them?

A lightbulb flickered to life. “I’ll give them the club.”

“What?!” Jackson and Youngjae simultaneously barked, the older jolting his coffee to spill over his notebook before spitting expletives at the mess.

Jackson mopped up the liquid covered desktop, eyeing Mark with concern. “Now I think you’ve officially lost it.”  

“That’s not an establishment that should be associated with my family’s name.” Mark decided with a final knock of his fingers against the wood of the desk. “They can take it for all I care.”

“Mark,” Jackson implored, looking over at Youngjae for support, “these _are_ the kinds of establishments our world works in. This is not the time to climb on the high horse, we make a good portion of our profits from Silk. Even your father knew that.”

Mark shook his head profusely. “No, my father would’ve never invested in that. Bambam was given Silk for a reason and I’m going to find out why. But I _know_ my father would want me to get rid of this club, I can feel it.”

“I don’t know why I’m even here sometimes.” Jackson sighed with an exasperated smile, dabbing at the spilt coffee. “God knows you never listen to me. So, you’re just going to hand over the money-maker?”

“Yep.” Mark grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And then I’m gonna open my own directly opposite them.”

Jackson’s cleaning attempts stopped, his body pausing to stare at Mark. “What?”

“You didn’t notice the for-sale sign opposite the club? Huh, you really need to up those observation skills, brother.” Mark smirked at his consigliere, enjoying being one step ahead of someone for once.

Jackson narrowed his eyes in irritation, aware that he was being teased. “Fill me in on this genius plan of yours, then.”

“The only reason Silk is successful is Bambam.” Mark asserted, his faith in his brother’s abilities a certainty. “I take him out of Silk and they have nothing. They don’t have the faithful patrons or the connections to suppliers and distributors. No one in the neighbourhood who has protection from us would _dare_ visit there. We can get some cops on the books to stir up trouble there whenever we’d like. I’ll open my own place; a reputable establishment, somewhere we can be proud of and, eventually, they’ll be run out of business.”

“That’s…” Jackson paused, lip jutted out in thought, “actually a really good idea.”

“Are you going to meet with the Yakuza?” Youngjae asked, pouring another coffee for Jackson.

“We all are.” Mark answered. “I’ll have Bambam host at Silk, show the Japanese what they want, give them a taste of it so they’ll be less suspicious of our motives to sell.”

“You know,” Youngjae began, chewing the last pieces of his toast, “there’s someone who could help us out with the negotiations. Someone who’s familiar with the Yakuza and has dealt with them before.”

Mark sipped on his coffee, interested in Youngjae’s potential aide. “Who’s that?”

The younger brushed away the breadcrumbs around his mouth. “Jinyoung.”

Both Mark and Jackson froze at the younger’s name, glancing uncomfortably at each other for different reasons.

“How is Jinyoung familiar with the Yakuza?” Mark finally asked after an awkward silence.

“They tried encroaching on Park territory a few years ago.” Youngjae recalled, watching the two older men weirdly because of their reactions. “Jinyoung stepped up to deal with the situation. He was in talks with the Japanese for a good few weeks but, eventually, he somehow got them to back off. It was quite a feat in the community.”

Mark considered Youngjae’s information cautiously; of course, it would be more than advantageous to have someone who had already dealt with the Yakuza before on his side but it was _Jinyoung._ Did he really want to get Jinyoung involved in all of this? Would Jinyoung even be willing?

“There are rumours that the Yakuza still respect Jinyoung to this day.” Youngjae continued, sounding proud of his friend. “That they even offered him a job after their negotiations, they were so impressed by him.”

Mark’s eyebrows raised; so Jinyoung had carved out quite the reputation for himself whilst Mark had been away. Not that it surprised him. The younger would negotiate like a professional with his mother for a chocolate bar when he was a child. He was born for this, silver-tongued to the highest degree.

“It would be a good idea to have him there, boss.” Youngjae suggested hesitantly, not sure whether it was his place to make suggestions. “A familiar face will ease the Yakuza’s trepidations.”

God, he hated to admit it but Youngjae was right. Mark had never negotiated with anyone like the Yakuza before; they were a formidable force and Mark was but an amateur. If he could convince Jinyoung to play mediator then, perhaps, this deal could fall in their favour.

“Okay.” Mark agreed, standing and grabbing his jacket from the coat rack. “I’m going to go personally ask him if he’ll attend. Jackson, get a hold of Bambam and make sure he gets the club ready. I want to meet as soon as possible.”  

Jackson nodded, already moving to the phone. Youngjae, too, took his mobile phone out and began planning the negotiation details. Mark watched them for a moment, his little team, working determinedly to help the family name, to help _him_. It warmed him beyond compare for a moment.

Jackson looked up from the phone at Mark, his expression indecipherable. “You sure Jinyoung is gonna agree to this?”

Before Mark could answer, Bambam picked up on the other line and Jackson threw himself into the conversation.

Luckily for Mark, considering he had no idea how to answer him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Park estate was simultaneously intimidating and incredibly beautiful.

The Escalade drove up the winding gravel, flanked by overgrown shrubs and hanging willow trees brushing against the car windows. Mark watched the colossal house loom above him as they passed through the immense iron gates pushed open for visitors. As the car rounded the marble fountain at the front of the mansion, Mark felt a twinge of indecision tug at him.

Jinyoung had every right to reject his offer today; it would maybe even be the reasonable decision to make. And Mark didn’t know if he could take one more rejection from the younger man; it felt like it would be the final stroke.

A man appeared at the front door, ready to greet the Parks’ guest, and Mark took a huge breath, puffing his chest up in some semblance of confidence. His driver opened the car door for him and he stepped out, watching the breeze sway the willows in the chilly wind. Ascending the stone steps, Mark nodded at the man waiting for him at the front door.

“Mark Tuan. I’m here to see Jinyoung.”

The man’s eyes bulged with recognition and, in a flash, he invited Mark into the house before rushing off to find Jinyoung. Standing in the foyer, Mark let the familiarity of the room wash over him like well-meaning rain.

Everything was still as it had been ten years ago when Mark had last visited Jinyoung. The opulent chandelier dangling over the room, the sprawling marble staircase, the expensive paintings Mark couldn’t quite understand, the glass table in the middle of the room and, atop, a vase with fresh flowers that was changed every morning at Jinyoung’s mother’s request.

Footsteps echoed down the staircase and Mark turned to face whoever was coming towards him.

“Don Tuan, what a… pleasant surprise.”

Mark flinched at the sound of Don Park’s voice and watched the older man descend the staircase, the customary rage bubbling within him whenever he was in the same room as Jinyoung’s father.

A tall, slim man with razor-sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes, Don Park reminded Mark of a hawk. An alert and severe face with slicked-back, dark hair and a typical mobster moustache, the older man always looked like he was debating whether you were worth breathing in his presence. Usually, it looked like you weren’t.

Mark noted that Don Park didn’t attempt to greet him; the expected press of the cheeks. He didn’t miss the blatant show of disrespect that meant. He knew it meant he was unwelcome in Don Park’s home, that the elder Don did not take him seriously at all. The insult stung; in front of Don Park, he would always be a child, the friend of his son who he’d never accepted. 

The Don’s eyes ran over Mark’s face, his smirk jagged and cruel. “I’m not aware of any meeting between the two of us.”

“I’m actually here to see Jinyoung.” Mark shot back.

Instantly, Don Park’s eyes darkened, black and fathomless, and the artificial smirk dropped, all semblance of niceties gone. “You’ve been gone for a while, Mark. Things have changed. Jinyoung… has changed.”

Hearing Don Park even mention his son’s name made Mark’s skin crawl. Jinyoung had changed because his father had _forced_ him to change, had shoved him into a mould of what he expected Jinyoung to be and had accepted nothing less. Mark refused to believe that his Jinyoung was gone; he had looked Jinyoung in the eyes across the table at The Orchid and _seen_ him. He was still in there, buried so deep that sunlight couldn’t reach him, but there nonetheless. 

“You see…” Don Park continued, voice raspy and deceptively nonchalant. “Jinyoung has learnt where he belongs. What he’s meant to do. Where his allegiances lie.”

The threat, although underlying, was plain as day.

_He belongs to me. He’s meant to do what I tell him to do. He has no allegiances to you and if you even try to change that, I’ll declare war._

Mark couldn’t form a reply, his throat tight with fury.

“I know you two were… _close_.” Don Park continued, eyes burning into Mark, his tone poisonously knowing. The younger swallowed harshly. _Did he know? How could he know?_ “But I’m afraid the lines have been drawn in the sand. Your father saw to that.”

“Don’t you dare bring up my father.” Mark spat out, his body vibrating with rage.

In just a few strides, Don Park was across the room and in Mark’s space, towering over him, covering him in shadow. He gritted his teeth at the younger, his eyes filled with malice.

“Your father was a swine and a bona fide sham. A charlatan in Mafiosi clothing.” Don Park seethed, voice low and vicious. “He came from _nothing_ and so do you.”

His fist was clenched, ready to swing, ready to _hurt_ -

“Mark?”

Don Park stepped aside, stepped out of Mark’s bleeding red vision, and revealed Jinyoung at the foot of the staircase, watching the two men uneasily. His eyes glanced down to Mark’s fist and he knew, Mark saw it dawn on Jinyoung’s face, what had just happened.

“Dad, Joe wants to discuss today’s itinerary with you.” Jinyoung called across the room, voice echoing in the hollow room, his body wound tight in expectation of his father’s reaction.

The older Don stayed for a moment, staring Mark down in an attempt to gain submission, as Mark stared back in defiance. Finally, he laughed, a harsh sound that crackled the tension in the room, and sauntered up the staircase, brushing past Jinyoung intentionally. Jinyoung flinched, his eyes flickering shut for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“Let’s move to the reading room.”

Mark stormed into the next room, barely taking in his surroundings. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even _think_ past his anger. Don Park had always been a spiteful and venomous human being; any man who treated a child the way he treated a young Mark had to be awful. But the fact that, even when they were equals, Don Park refused to show him the respect he deserved, spat on his father’s name, a man who wasn’t here anymore and _earned_ his respect… there were no words for the hatred he felt.

Mark had always been incredibly proud of his father’s humble beginnings. Born originally in Los Angeles, his paternal grandparents had been Korean War refugees who’d sought asylum in America and made a life for themselves. Eventually, they’d decided to move back to their home country and bought a house in a district controlled by the infamous Don Moon, a callous and cold-blooded boss. Real old-school. His father had gradually fallen into a group of friends who worked as runners for the Moon family and he’d begun to pick up work. By the age of eighteen, his father had been a soldier for one of Don Moon’s favourite capos. Over several years, his hard work and dedication had impressed Don Moon so much that he’d elected Mark’s father as a capo. Two years later, Don Moon had fallen ill to pneumonia and passed away, childless and without a blood successor. In his last will and testament, he had declared that Richard Tuan would pick up the mantle after his death. And so, Don Tuan was born.

He may not have been Mafiosi from birth but Mark’s father had proven himself time and time again. For Don Park to question that, it was the ultimate slap in the face.

“He _had_ to go there, he had to bring up my father.” Mark seethed, pacing back and forth, his feet tracking through the carpet. “I’m sorry, Jinyoung, I know he’s your father but he’s _so_ \--”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, couldn’t bring himself to insult Jinyoung’s father in front of him, even after everything he’d said to Mark. Jinyoung watched him from the door, unnervingly silent. Mark let the hot air blow out of him, exhaling until he was hollow.

Jinyoung leaned back against the door, his face expressionless. “Why are you here?”

The room felt cold and Mark shivered unconsciously. “I need your help.”

Jinyoung’s silence choked the room, wrapping its hands around Mark’s throat until he couldn’t bear it.

“I want to meet with the Yakuza.” Mark continued, folding his arms self-consciously. “I heard you’ve got connections.”

The younger prolonged his silence for a moment before huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You came all the way here to ask me that?”

Mark blinked confusedly for a few seconds, jarred by Jinyoung’s cold reception. A door slammed somewhere upstairs and Jinyoung flinched, his eyes dark and skittish.

“I…” Mark paused, clearing his throat uncomfortably. There was an atmosphere in the Park house; an insufferable pressure that had existed ever since he had been a kid, like the actual air of the house was trying to squeeze the life out of its inhabitants. “I want to sell them the club and I need a mediator. Someone experienced, someone who’s succeeded in persuading the Yakuza before.”

“So, you heard about that.” Jinyoung remarked, his smile brittle and too bright to be real, like staring into a lightbulb and trying to convince yourself it’s the sun. The younger rubbed a hand over his face, his knuckles red and scratched up, and watched Mark stonily. His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, so dark they were almost purple…

“Has something happened?” Mark blurted out, wincing at the sound of his building anxiety. There was something off about Jinyoung, something so… _wrong_ , it made his stomach turn. He seemed flighty, like he was ready to take off at any moment, and his body leaned too much to the right, like he was trying to lift the pressure off of one side of his body. The younger instinctively pulled at the sleeves of his sweater and Mark caught the edge of a bandage under the material.

“What do I get out of the deal?” Jinyoung inquired, one of his hands unconsciously drifting over his lower chest, over his ribs, before he shoved them harshly into his jean pockets. The question was so Jinyoung and yet, again, it felt seriously wrong, like Jinyoung was an imitation of himself.

“Whatever you want.” Mark answered softly. A voice started calling out from the back of his mind, a voice that sounded eerily like his 16-year-old self. _Jinyoung, ask me to take you away. Ask me to get you out of here and I will, I swear. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again._

 _This house,_ Mark shook his head bitterly to himself, biting down a harsh laugh.

Jinyoung stared over Mark’s shoulder, eyes distant and impassive, and Mark had his answer. He didn’t need to hear Jinyoung make his choice again; he’d heard it loud and clear ten years ago. Negotiation with the Yakuza would be difficult, practically impossible, but Mark had to try. Silk was going to become a festering disease, Mark could feel it, and he had to cut the cancer out before it spread.

“I’ll do it.”

Mark turned from the door back to Jinyoung, too dumbfounded to reply.

“I’m not sure what I want yet.” Jinyoung decided and Mark swallowed painfully at the double meaning. “But when I know, I’ll call on you for that one thing I want.”

Mark’s hand on the door handle tightened. “One thing?”

Jinyoung nodded, his face unreadable. “One thing.”

It would hang over Mark, their deal, like an endless cloud, waiting eagerly to be lifted. But it would have to do. The door swung open and Mark made to leave before Jinyoung’s voice called him back again.

“Oh, and Mark?”

“Yeah?”

The air crushed down on him, chasing the breath from Mark’s lungs. _This house._

“Don’t ever come here when my father is home again.”

He let the door slam behind him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jackson glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. “Are Yakuza renowned for never showing up to anything on time?”

Mark huffed an impatient exhale, shifting in the wooden chair he was occupying. He’d glanced at the clock enough to know that the Yakuza were late or maybe not turning up at all. Maybe they had realised how foolish of a deal this was, maybe they had called Mark’s bluff. And worst of all, Jinyoung hadn’t arrived either.

“How are we supposed to do this without Jinyoung?” Youngjae whispered fretfully to Mark, talking in a hush despite the fact that the club was completely empty apart from their small group. Mark didn’t answer Youngjae’s question; he wasn’t entirely sure how to. He had put all of his eggs in Jinyoung’s basket, relying on him to turn up and pull this deal off. Would Jinyoung really leave him hang out to dry like that?

“We never should have trusted him in the first place.” Jackson snapped at the others, tapping his foot infuriatingly against the grotty floor tiles. Mark knew he shouldn’t argue with Jackson, should conserve his energy for the meeting with the Yakuza, but Jinyoung’s absence was a keening wound and Jackson was pouring salt into it.

“Why would he show up if you’re just going to jump down his throat the entire time?” Mark bit back, throwing a shot of whiskey down his throat, letting the burn take his mind off of the growing ache in his chest.  

Jackson’s mouth opened, a retort ready on his tongue, when the club doors swung open, pouring natural light into the dingy room. Two men stood in the entranceway, both dressed in the finest black suits and sunglasses covering their eyes. The men split apart and, between them, a woman stepped forward. Mark’s head shot over to Jackson who was trying not to let his jaw hang open. His eyes asked his consigliere the group’s burning question. _We’re meeting with a woman?_

The doors fell shut and the three plunged into shadow, silent figures observing the club with a clinical interest. Mark expected his body to break out into a sweat, his mind to run wild with loud and obnoxious thoughts, but everything came to a tumbling halt. A chill froze his insides; the Yakuza before him could well have been responsible for his father’s murder or, at least, played some part in the orchestration. They had everything to gain from the death of Don Richard Tuan and Mark made sure not to forget that fact.

“Welcome to Silk!” Bambam greeted enthusiastically, doing what he did best; hosting. “Take a seat over there and I’ll get you guys some drinks.”

The three Yakuza filed into the room, heading to the long table set up in the middle of the floor and sliding into seats across from Mark, Jackson and Youngjae. The woman reached to remove her sunglasses and Youngjae flinched so suddenly that Mark had to hold him down to the seat by his knee. He squeezed Youngjae’s thigh painfully; _you show weakness here and we’re done for._ Youngjae got the message, stilling immediately.

“My name is Sayuri.” The woman introduced herself, voice soft and unassuming. Her black eyes pierced the three men before her, assessing them meticulously. “My associates are Kaito and Atsuya.”

Sayuri offered her small, elegant hand to Mark and he eyed it for a moment before reaching out and shaking it. “Mark Tuan. This is my consigliere Jackson Wang and my capo Choi Youngjae.”

Jackson nodded stiffly and Youngjae remained mute, mouth sealed shut. Sayuri’s gaze danced over the two men before flickering across the room.

“I was told Park Jinyoung would be here.” Sayuri remarked, her voice soft and honeyed, sticking to Mark’s skin, singing Mark into a gooey stupor. Brushing back her velvet black hair, Sayuri’s eyes lured Mark in, oozing into Mark’s head and he felt malleable, like sludge, so pliable, so eager to please, so persuadable…

Liv had loved myths and legends when she was younger and had bought books on folklore of practically every country Mark could think of. A picture in her book was materialising in his brain; a woman with long, flowing hair, resting upon a sea-battered rock, reaching out to a man, some poor fool, towing him in, in, in, and, soon, under.

A siren.

He knew he was being stupid, the woman was clearly not some scary bedtime story, but Mark couldn’t help but think that Sayuri had a gift for getting exactly what she wanted. Everything about her was magnetic; she was primed to influence minds, change hearts. If she really tried, Sayuri could probably sway entire nations. In the club he owned, surrounded by loyal friends who would protect him with their lives, sitting before Sayuri, Mark had never felt more in danger.

The three young men glanced back and forth at each other, clambering frantically to come up with an excuse, when light streamed through the open club doors again and a figure appeared in the entryway, glowing in the midday sunshine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I do apologise for my less than punctual arrival, I had an important errand to run.”

Ruffling his windswept hair with a charming smile for the room, Jinyoung was nothing like the caged bird Mark had witnessed at the Park estate. With the attention of every person in the club on him, Jinyoung flourished, striding towards the table with an infectious confidence that cut straight through the syrup smothering Mark’s mind. With Jinyoung came clarity and already, the younger man had done more than enough to help Mark.

“Jinyoung.” Sayuri rose from the booth, her smile sweet as sugar, her delicate fingers reaching out for the one person she’d wanted to see. “It’s been too long.”

Jinyoung cupped Sayuri’s petite hands in his own, returning his own affectionate smile. Mark’s teeth ground together.

“You really should visit more often, Yuri. I have yet to take you to that wonderful Moroccan restaurant I told you about.”

Mark watched the two standing before him, captivated by the aura they emitted together, unable to tear his eyes away. Slowly but surely, Mark recognised that, although Jinyoung was very fond of the Yakuza woman, Sayuri’s charms failed to have their intended effect on him. Sayuri had met her match; someone who similarly could hypnotise an entire room with one word. Jinyoung fascinated Sayuri and Sayuri intrigued Jinyoung. And Mark, well… Mark couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the entire affair.

“Please, sit.” Jinyoung gestured to the chair Sayuri had risen from before taking his own seat opposite Kaito and left to Mark. “I hope we can resolve this deal quickly and enjoy a drink together in good spirits.”

Sayuri rested her hands gently atop the table, her sparkling eyes following Jinyoung’s every movement, bewitched by his very presence. “You know I hold affection for you, Jinyoung, but that will not cloud my judgement about this deal. Do not assume I will settle for nothing less than I deserve.”

“Of course.” Jinyoung answered, his beatific smile revealing nought. “I would expect nothing but professionalism from you. We will try our very best to accommodate your wishes.”

“I want the club.” Sayuri stated brazenly, her saccharine smile warming the group despite her bold request.

“We’ve already offered you the club. It is yours to take, as long as you terminate every other form of business you conduct in the city.” Jinyoung answered amiably, however, Mark watched Jinyoung’s eyes narrow slightly. He clearly didn’t trust Sayuri’s motives and Mark began to wonder what else the young woman wanted from them.

“Ah…” Sayuri exhaled a giggle, a breathlessly melodic sound, and Mark’s hackles rose slightly. “ _Every_ business?”

“Yes, my dear Yuri. That is non-negotiable.” Jinyoung settled, refusing to budge from his position. Mark expected a stalemate, for the Yakuza to argue for fairer terms, but Sayuri simply nodded with a smile, a single sweet dimple denting her cheek.

“Then, of course. However…” Sayuri continued, her fingernails tapping rhythmically against the table. “I would like to make another request.”

Jinyoung’s knee resting against Mark’s suddenly stiffened, although Jinyoung’s face showed no reaction. They had treaded into deep waters, Mark could sense it, and the sharks were circling. Jinyoung gestured for Sayuri to make her request and, for the first time since Jinyoung had arrived, Sayuri’s eyes landed on Mark as she addressed him directly.

“There is information that you are not…” Sayuri paused, licking her soft pink lips, “…aware of at this moment in time.”

Mark’s entire being chilled to the core. _Is she implying that… no, how could she know…_

Jinyoung gripped Mark’s leg under the table, his nails digging deeply into Mark’s skin. He couldn’t feel the pain, staring into Sayuri’s guileless gaze; he couldn’t feel anything. Jackson’s chair screeched awfully in the silent room as he tried to rise to his feet before Youngjae wrenched him back down into his seat. Kaito and Atsuya both reached inside their suit jackets instinctively before relaxing as Jackson was restrained. Sayuri didn’t spare the incident a single glance.

“I want assurances that when you are made aware of said information,” Sayuri continued, watching Mark intently as a predator would watch its prey, “that the Yakuza will not receive any form of retaliation.”

Jinyoung’s mouth opened to reply but one glance from Sayuri and it slammed shut. It was not his question to answer. The group remained silent, watching the standoff between Mark and Sayuri as seconds trickled by excruciatingly.

When Mark finally spoke, he could barely recognise the rough husk of his voice. “You can rest assured, there will be no retaliation from me.”

Sayuri studied him for a moment and the siren image blazed across his eyes once more before her face broke out into a radiant smile, so inviting, so provoking, that Mark had to bite the inside of his cheek, not to stop himself from saying something stupid but from _smiling with her._

“Then our business is complete!” Sayuri announced with a delighted clap, the rest of the room staring at her wordlessly. Mark’s chest nearly caved in. Sayuri had sang him to her rock and now, he was sinking.

“Jinyoung, that drink?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Well, that went well.”

The group remained sat around the table, long after Sayuri and her associates had finished their drinks and left. Sayuri had wished Mark well, raised a glass for the success of his businesses, but Mark couldn’t help but feel it was more of a curse than a blessing.

Jackson rolled his eyes, tugging wearily at his tie. “You can talk, Bam. All you had to do was make the fucking drinks.”

Mark’s brain was still heaving itself out of Sayuri’s saturated sweetness; the syrup had turned to mud and the sludge held him down, unable to writhe out of the muck.

“Who _was_ that woman?” Youngjae wondered, wrapping his fingers around the tablecloth.

“Sayuri Hayakawa.” Jinyoung spoke her name in a soft, almost deferential tone and Mark instantly understood why Jinyoung held respect for such a woman.

“Hayakawa? Like Kenji Hayakawa? _The_ Kenji Hayakawa?” Youngjae gasped in half-awe, half-terror. They all began to realise just exactly who they had sat at the table with.

Jinyoung nodded grimly. “She’s his daughter and future successor.”

Mark rubbed at his temples in exhaustion. Unbeknownst to most of the room, he had just dealt indirectly with the head of the Hayakawa family, the strongest Yakuza syndicate in Japan. If the Dons of the other three families found out what he’d done… Mark would have a lot of explaining to do.

He turned to Jinyoung, smile wry and resigned. “You don’t deal with the bottom of the barrel, do you?”

Jinyoung grinned although it looked more like a grimace. “I’m sorry but _that_ was my connection. The Hayakawa family are the Yakuza who encroached on our territory and my father gave me the job. If I’m honest, I think he was setting me up to fail.”

No one asked Jinyoung to elaborate on his chilling theory, too disturbed to open that can of worms.

“Well, you gained their respect.” Mark concluded, finishing his glass of rum with a dash of water. “Let’s hope that’s enough to get them off my back for a few weeks, maybe even months.”

“Does she know?” Youngjae hesitated to ask the question, although they all knew that it needed to be asked. “About… y’know…”

Mark could try to give Sayuri the benefit of the doubt, she could have been insinuating about a completely different situation, but his gut screamed at him to wake up and stop playing dumb. Everyone in the room knew exactly what she had implied. The Yakuza may not have directly ordered the hit on Mark’s father but their fingers were definitely in this particular pie.

“She knows something, otherwise she wouldn’t have made sure the Yakuza received clemency.” Mark concluded stonily, trying his hardest to detach emotionally from the situation. A deal was a deal and what Sayuri had inferred would go unquestioned until Mark found out the truth. _If the Yakuza had any part to play, how can I not retaliate?_

Mark turned to Jackson, his face grave with hopeless inevitability. “You know what I swore to do.”

The younger man nodded sombrely, unable to forget their first meeting at Mark’s father’s wake.

_“I’m gonna find out who did it… and I’m gonna kill them, Jackson.”_

Jackson reached out and clapped his friend on the shoulder. Mark could feel it shaking against his shirt. “We haven’t come to the end of the road yet, brother. Hold fast.”

The group rose from their seats, shaking hands and patting each other’s backs in camaraderie at their small and temporary victory. Mark didn’t miss the fact that Jackson and Jinyoung completely avoided each other, weaving around the other skilfully without acknowledging each other’s existences.

“Y’know… I’m gonna miss this place.” Bambam sighed wistfully, reminiscing about his first business venture. Looking behind the audacious floral Hawaiian shirt, crocodile skin boots and teashade sunglasses, Mark could see Bambam’s keen loss; Silk was one of the last connections he had to Mark’s father, the man who had practically raised him. It had been his venture to prove himself, to amend for the shame he’d caused the Tuan family. In a way, it was Bambam’s key but also his shackle. The club had freed him from his sins but was holding him back from moving forward with his life.

“Don’t expect to be unemployed for too long.” Mark warned offhandedly, suppressing a grin.

Bambam narrowed his eyes at the older man. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Mark finally grinned, unable to hide his glee at surprising his brother, “when I make you a capo, I’ll want you in charge of all future clubs we open.”

The Thai native was dumbstruck for a moment, mouthing words he couldn’t voice out loud, before virtually diving across the room to Mark, straight into his older brother’s arms. He still didn’t speak, there weren’t really any words that sufficiently expressed his gratitude, but Mark understood. Whatever had come before, whatever had come between them, dissolved into the wind at that moment. It would never be brought up again, left to die in the past. They were family and always would be.

Over Bambam’s shoulder, Mark watched Jinyoung discreetly slip away to the front door of the club, looking back once to Mark, expression unreadable, before disappearing outside. He hadn’t even had the chance to thank Jinyoung for what the younger had managed to pull off; even succeeding in getting the Yakuza to agree to a meeting was an impressive feat. And yet, Jinyoung didn’t want to take any credit for it. He didn’t stay to bask in any glory, instead, stealing away like a thief in the night. So unlike the Jinyoung he’d known. Mark didn’t know how to feel about that development.

“Can we really pull this off?” Youngjae frowned, eyes darting around the group, seeking reassurance. “If they come back, they’ll come for all of us.”

Wrapping one arm around Bambam’s back, Mark reached his other hand out and gripped Youngjae’s shoulder securely, squeezing comfort into his skin.

“I will protect this family. Yes, that means my mother and Liv but that also includes Jackson, Bambam and you. It includes your father and your mother. Your future kids. _That’s my family_. I won’t let anything happen to you, Jae.”

The promise soothed Youngjae’s fears and his frown cleared with a smile like thunderclouds dispelling to welcome the sun. The Yakuza very well could come back, unsatisfied with what they’d been given and hunting for more, but if they planned on hurting anyone he loved, they’d have to come through Mark first.

Mark clutched his friends, no, his _family,_ close to his chest for one second more before releasing them. “Let’s go home, guys.”

The three men turned to the club door and screeched to an abrupt halt as Jackson appeared suddenly in the entryway, panting heavily. Mark hadn’t even realised that the young man had disappeared.

“Get in the car. We need to go to the hospital.”

Mark’s stomach flipped; he hated the hospital at the best of times and, now, in his new life, the place brought him nothing but dread.

“The driver… of the car your father was in.” Jackson’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he caught his breath. “He woke up from his induced coma a few hours ago.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Pushing the chrome handles of the white double doors open, Mark strode into the hospital purposefully, suppressing his hesitance. The smell of bleach had already hit his nostrils and the entrance looked lifeless. Dirty linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lights and magnolia walls covered in old crinkling posters. It was easy to see why he, and so many others, were apprehensive about coming to the hospital. He stopped in front of the reception desk, Jackson not far behind him, and tapped the bell to get the nurse’s attention; a large, middle-aged woman with fraying black hair and a tattered uniform who looked like she wanted to be there just about as much as Mark did.

Looking up from her computer, the nurse chewed her gum lethargically. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, we don’t.” Mark tapped his foot impatiently against the flooring. “But we’re here to see a friend who’s just woken up. Lee Seungwon. It’s urgent.”

With a frown, the nurse turned back to her computer, acrylic nails clattering away at the keyboard. Mark sighed irritably, already wishing for an open window or hand sanitiser he could use.

“I’m sorry,” The nurse apologised, although she didn’t sound very contrite. “I can’t let you in without a pre-booked appoint--”

“Ma’am,” Jackson stepped forward, folding his arms over the counter, and the nurse backed away slightly. “You might want to let us in sooner rather than later. _Don Tuan_ has a very busy schedule.”

The realisation dawned on her face and, as if a lightning bolt struck her body, the nurse rushed to type something quickly into the computer before shooting up from her chair and grabbing her clipboard.

“Right this way, sir.”

Following the nurse, Mark glanced over at Jackson who winked at him roguishly. He shook his head and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. It hadn’t even dawned upon Mark to use his name; it felt more like the action of a C-list celebrity trying to get into the VIP area of a club. But, like Jackson had said, his name meant something in the city and if he could use it to get the answers he needed then he would allow a few concessions.

The ward didn’t fare much better than the hallways; thin beds with flimsy sheets, limp curtains hanging from bars in the ceiling, sparse furniture bar a few plastic chairs. Although the air smelt of sanitation, the fragrance didn’t instil any confidence in Mark about cleanliness. Trays of food were still on counters and bins were practically overflowing with trash. Most of the bed occupants were elderly and Mark couldn’t help but feel like the ward was a waiting room, a place for the forgotten.

In one of the beds, a frail, elderly man was resting upright, pillows fluffed up around his head. Wires and tubes trailed around him, connected to machines beeping that Mark didn’t understand. Eyes opened marginally, the man was watching the television in the corner of the room, chest rising and falling slowly with sluggish breath.

The nurse approached him carefully, smile already painted on her face. “Seungwon? You’ve got visitors.”

Milky, exhausted eyes turned to look at them and Mark felt a twinge of guilt. The man was still recuperating from a terrible car crash and was lucky to even still have his life. To intrude on his recovery just to, almost, interrogate him felt like a total lack of respect.

“Who is it?” Seungwon croaked out, shifting uncomfortably in the bed, joints creaking with a wince.

The nurse glanced at Mark warily and before she could answer, Mark stepped forward. “I’m Don Tuan. I’m here with my consigliere, Jackson Wang.”

Seungwon stiffened, gawking at Mark with protruding eyes and mouth open wide.  “I—Sir… how…?”

“I’m just here to ask you a few questions, Seungwon, nothing more.” Mark sat down in a plastic chair next to the bed, folding one leg over another and smiling at the old man benignly.

It felt deceitful but he had to lull the old man into a false sense of security if he was going to get any honest answers. He was more than desperate at this point; he was dangerously frantic in his search for the truth.

Seungwon watched him out of the corner of his eye carefully, unable to make full eye contact. “O-of course sir… whatever you need to know.”

Mark continued to smile, warm and nonthreatening. “What happened the day of the accident?”

“Um…” Seungwon squinted his eyes, concentrating hard. “Well, your father wanted to run some errands… deliver some letters, meet with a few people, the usual day y’know… we were on Gyeongbu Expressway and it was raining bad, I could barely see a thing…”

He stopped, looking out of the window for a moment before coming back to himself, watching Mark in wait for the next question. Mark glanced at Jackson who was studying the old man acutely, eyes narrowed as if he could tell a piece of the puzzle was missing.

“And… what?” Mark probed. “You swerved?”

“Yes!” Seungwon cried, nodding fervently, his stray grey hairs flapping in the breeze before he paused and began shaking his head instead. “I mean… no. Another driver swerved. We were fine and then the next thing you know… the rain was so bad… and Don Tuan didn’t have a seatbelt on… I can’t remember much from that day.”

The story was believable enough; Gyeongbu was the one of the most extensive, and busiest, expressways in not just the city but the entire country. Combined with extreme weather and poor visibility, car accidents were more than likely to occur. However, something bugged Mark, something nagged at him and told him not to take this harmless old man at face value.

“You see, Seungwon…” Mark began, linking his hands together. “There’s been talk in the community about what happened that day… I just hope that you’re being completely honest with me.”

Seungwon watched him silently, wringing his hands together atop his sheets. It seemed he was carefully trying to decide what he was going to say, his eyes running over Mark and Jackson several times before deciding not to say anything at all.

“You’re not in trouble if anything _did_ happen that day, Seungwon.” Mark assured, eyes boring into the older man, searching his gaze for the truth. “I just need to know.”

“I…” Seungwon began, mouth wobbling as he looked between the two men fearfully. “There’s not much to tell, sir. It all happened so fast, not how I expected it at all, I’m very muddled right now—”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jackson interrupted, moving from the end of the bed to standing next to Mark, leaning into the older man’s space. “What do you mean ‘not how you expected it’?”

The men fell silent and Seungwon stared at Jackson, eyes wide in shock, at the situation or at himself, probably both. Mark had to bite his tongue; his fuse was rapidly shortening and something definitely was not ringing true to him. Tired of the delay, Jackson grabbed Seungwon’s hand and squeezed, crushing his fingers together.

“Answer my question.”

Seungwon cried out, slapping at Jackson with his other hand feebly. “I-I swear sir, I ain’t got nothing to hide! I didn’t ask for this!”

Jackson pressed even harder, feeling the bones click underneath his grasp. “Didn’t ask for what?”

The old man’s yelps of pain disturbed Mark and he couldn’t help but instinctively feel like he should step in but he didn’t. The voice in his head, the one that had been hissing at him since he had stood in the bathroom of his parents’ house, told him not to move a muscle. To let the old man suffer. And that unnerved Mark more than anything else.

Seungwon shrieked, sweat starting to drip down his face. “I didn’t ask to be a part of this! Please, I didn’t have a choice!”

Mark sat up in his chair, tremors running through his body. A wave of his hand and instantly, Jackson stopped squeezing, removing his hand from the older man’s, who moaned in relief.

Mark stood, towering over the weak old man in the bed. “What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? Choice in what?”

His voice was emotionless, his face blank. The sheer blow to his stomach had shocked his body into lockdown; all feeling had been turned off to protect himself.

Seungwon gaped up at Mark before he broke down completely, blubbering noisily. “I’m so sorry, sir! I’m so sorry!”

Unable to move an inch, Mark kept pressing, voice almost too low to even hear. “Sorry for what?”

The old man sputtered out words, snot and tears running down his face. “He came to me… told me he’d pay me a lot of money if I took Gyeongbu and just let the car drive at us… he’d even pay for my medical bills! My family is so in debt, sir, I really had no choice--”

Seungwon’s pleas drowned out as if Mark’s ears had filled with water. He stumbled backwards, reaching out to grip the chair and, instead, gripping the sleeve of Jackson’s suit jacket; the younger man had dove to catch him, his eyes a reflection of Mark’s excruciating agony. He may have known, and believed, all along that his father’s death was no accident but now, he had concrete proof right in front of him; there was no way it could be denied any longer. It was a pure fact and nearly brought Mark to his knees.

“Who?” Mark demanded, barely able to make his voice work. “Who paid you? Tell me who!”

“I can’t sir, I can’t.” Seungwon snivelled, tiny and pathetic. “He’ll kill me sir, he’ll kill my family.”

Nothing would get him to talk; no threat, no promise of protection, nought would break the man’s silence. A real, unyielding fear had been driven into Seungwon just like it had been driven into the people of Gwangjin. Money and terror had bought the coverup of his father’s murder. Mark couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t even try to lunge at the old man like his impulses wanted to. He just wanted to throw up.

“Let’s go, Mark.” Jackson decided, holding him up by his elbow. “Come on brother, let’s get you out of here.”

The two men left Seungwon, sobbing in his hospital bed, and walked out of the ward, Jackson practically carrying Mark. He felt lifeless; all sensation in his body had left, he was just… there. Jackson called the car around, handing out orders to the men around them before lifting Mark into the Escalade, even going as far as to fit his seatbelt for him.

The younger grabbed Mark by his cheeks, making the older man look at him. “Breathe, okay? I’m getting some of the men to see if they can get the medical records for any payment information. All I need you to do is just stay here and breathe.”

Trying to gulp air through his constricted chest, Mark kept his eyes on Jackson and let everything else become white noise. The despondency, the utter despair, rising in his chest was almost unbearable; it had been a long time since he’d felt such agony. His inability to mourn at his father’s funeral, or even when he’d first heard the news in L.A., had resulted in emotions he hadn’t dealt with surging up within him.

He’d lost his father. He’d lost his father because some evil, coldblooded piece of shit had taken him away. It was like a ton of bricks dropping on top of his head. His whole world tilted on its axis. Nothing felt right.

“Hey, look at me.” Jackson called, his hands still cupping Mark’s cheeks. “I’m here, I’m always going to be here and we’re going to be okay. I promise to find who did this, I promise it. I swear on Omertà.”

Jackson’s enduring, unwavering strength and faith was like a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. Mark grasped onto it, held it close to his chest and believed with every fibre of his being that the younger was going to keep his word. He couldn’t do this without Jackson; he would truly fall apart.

Looking over his shoulder, Jackson nodded at some of the men before turning back to Mark. “The men are done so it’s time to go. We’ll look at what they’ve got once you’ve rested.”

“No, no,” Mark pushed against Jackson’s hold, shaking his head profusely, “tell me now, I need to know, tell me.”

“Okay, okay.” Jackson conceded, calming Mark down as best he could. “All that was on the payment record was an account number.”

Mark stilled, hands clinging to Jackson’s arms. “Tell me the number.”

The younger watched Mark warily for a few seconds before nodding, taking a piece of paper from one of the men and reading it. “008-129736.”

Mark gritted his teeth victoriously.

He nearly had the bastard.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooh the conspiracy thickens! who is seungwon afraid of? and mark has finally met with the yakuza! what do you think of sayuri? do you think they're involved in don tuan's murder and how? what about mark and jinyoung's father? clearly they do not get along at all heheheh please let me know what you think! 
> 
> until next week! 
> 
> slang definition  
> runner - a person who smuggles specified goods into or out of a country or area


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! welcome back! just to clarify before we get into the chapter, i had a few comments saying that the end of chapter 4 implied that mark knew who the bank account belonged to so i'd like to clear that up. it does not mean that mark knows who it is but that he feels one step closer to catching who it is; he nearly has the bastard. that's what i meant lmao sorry for the confusion! 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think!
> 
> chapter warning - descriptions of blood

Either the harsh morning sunlight or the pounding headache woke Mark; he wasn’t entirely sure which.

He didn’t even remember going to bed the night before. The entire journey home from the hospital had been a blur interspersed with flashes of Jackson’s troubled face. He’d dismissed everyone, too overwhelmed to face the men at the house, and handed over control to Jackson for the remainder of the night.

Images of car wrecks had shot through his mind all night; raging fires, sirens blazing, screams, so much godawful screaming Mark couldn’t take it anymore.

A tap at the door ripped Mark from his nightmares and he rose his head dazedly from the sheets.

“Morning, brother.”

Jackson rested his body against the door, a mug of coffee in each hand. Despite the absolutely horrific night he’d had, Mark couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of his consigliere, trying to be chipper at such an early hour. The effort was definitely appreciated.

Jackson crossed the room, handing over one of the mugs before lowering himself onto the other side of the bed, relaxing into the pillows. “Hope you don’t mind but my father is downstairs. We have some dealings to resolve and I wanted to stay here just in case.”

“Yeah, of course that’s fine, your father’s always welcome here. It’ll be nice to see him.” Mark hummed, inhaling the warm roast and letting the heat settle in his stomach. He had shivered most of the night and not entirely due to the chill in the air. 

Jackson eyed him warily, like he was expecting Mark to snap at any moment. “You sure you’re feeling alright? We can take the day off, I’ll cancel any appointments—”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Mark cut the younger man off. He refused to mope around in bed for the rest of the day, to leave his brain to its own devices and run riot with his fears.

Throwing the covers from his body, Mark rose from bed, determined to face whatever the day decided to throw at him. “C’mon, I bet Mama’s cooked up something special.”

As usual in the morning, the kitchen was bustling with men, some passing through to grab a cup of coffee or slice of toast and some seated at the table reading the newspaper. At the head of the breakfast table, Vincent Wang shuffled through a file of spreadsheet documents, pen tapping against the surface top.

“Morning, boys.” Vincent greeted, glancing up from his work for a second before continuing to scan over numbers and type figures into a calculator. The presence of the underboss had brought a sense of nostalgia to the house and its occupants; the men appeared more comforted by his appearance and Mark reluctantly agreed. He may be bringing a fresh reinvigoration to the Tuan family but the respect for the old ways would always survive.

Taking the seat adjacent to his father, Jackson stacked scattered sheets of paper together, trying to bring some sort of order to the chaos of documents on the table. “I don’t know how you can be this unorganised, dad.”

Vincent chuckled, a throaty smoker’s laugh, and tousled his son’s hair. “Hey, watch your tone, junior, or I might just leave all of this for you to sort out.”

Jackson rolled his eyes but continued to smile fondly at his father and Mark just couldn’t watch. He rose with a sudden jerk from his seat and headed to the coffee machine, keeping his back to the room. He hated that still, and probably for a long time coming, the sight of a father and son together would elicit that kind of reaction from him. That it would never be him and his father again. He shook his head violently; now really was not the time to wallow in self-pity.

“You boys got back late last night.” Mama observed from the stove, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. “What did you get up to?”

The two young men glanced at each other apprehensively, attempting to form a united response telepathically, before Vincent answered casually. “I took them to the bar for a few drinks. I made sure they didn’t get into any trouble, Seoyeon, don’t you worry.”

Hearing his mother’s first name was always a weird experience for Mark; she was either Mama or Mrs Tuan 99% of the time. Mark’s friends and the family men around the house called her Mama. Even his father had mostly referred to his wife as Mama, using the title as a form of respect for her position within the family. Mark knew that Mr Wang and his mother had known each other since they were teenagers and had met even before his father had met his mother. At dinners, his father had regularly told the story of how Vincent had introduced him to Mark’s mother and would raise a glass to his best friend, thanking him for the life that had grown from that single meeting. The Tuans and the Wangs; forever intertwined.

Mark slid back into his chair at the kitchen table as Vincent lowered his head and spoke in a low murmur. “If I’m covering for you two goombas, I’d like to know why.”

Jackson winced, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “We were at the hospital. The driver who…”

The younger glanced at Mark, checking with him that it was okay to spill the details, and Mark nodded for Jackson to continue. There’d been enough secrets between Mark and his dad; he didn’t want to create any between Jackson and Vincent.

“The driver in Don Tuan’s crash woke up yesterday. We went to talk to him, see if we could get any info out of him.”

Vincent looked surprised for a moment before frowning in confusion. “What would you need information for?”

“My father was murdered, Mr Wang.” Mark answered quietly but he might as well have screamed it. Vincent fell back in his chair with a dull thud, his face crumpled with devastation at the blow.

“You…” The older man began before sighing and shaking a head with a shudder. “Okay, start talking.”

“The driver was paid by someone to let the accident happen. Someone planned to have my father murdered. The books were being messed with weeks before his death, the Yakuza are definitely involved and now, the families are holding a meeting without me? One of them is in on it, Mr Wang.”

The bond between a boss and an underboss is complex; there’s a clear hierarchy and, yet, a deep bond of love and family. An underboss _chooses_ to work for their boss because they believe in him and his vision for the family. Underbosses work their entire lives to see their boss succeed because if the boss succeeds, so does the whole family. It’s a relationship like no other, founded on more than loyalty, more than trust, but on Omertà; an indescribable vow that lasts until death. An underboss losing their boss would be akin to losing a limb; they can keep going but that gap will always be there.

“I’m going to that meeting.” Vincent informed the two young men, grabbing his phone and typing in details. “And I’ll be watching _very_ carefully.” 

“We’re sending Youngjae as well.” Jackson told his dad, watching his dad nervously. The idea of his father walking into a room with Don Tuan’s possible killer clearly did not sit well with Jackson.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Vincent raised an eyebrow uncertainly. “He’s a bit of a cugine.”

“He’s loyal and he’s well-liked. He’ll be fine.” Mark answered slightly sensitively, defending his friend’s honour. “Just keep an eye out for him, would you?”

Vincent closed the folder in front of him, gathering his documents together. “Of course. Arthur’s a good man, I’ll look out for his kid.”

Knowing Youngjae would have an ally in the room quieted some of Mark’s loudest worries. His friend would, at least, be walking into that meeting with someone at his back.

Vincent threw back his mug, finishing the last of his coffee. “He used to work for the Ims, y’know.”

Mark’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who?”

“Your father’s driver. Seungwon, I believe?” Vincent answered, packing away his folders into a brown leather briefcase. “He drove for Don Im for quite a while and then, for some reason, he was out of a job and Richard hired him.”

Mark’s stomach churned and he pushed away his breakfast, unable to finish it.

Rising from his chair, Vincent gave Mark one last stern look.

“Don’t even think of showing up to that meeting. Not for any reason, not even an emergency. You don’t know who’s put a target on your back. I'm afraid of what's coming for you but..." Vincent shook his head, wondering if he should even utter his next words. "I'm more afraid of _you_ and what you can and will do. _Don't go._ Promise me, kid.”

Mark nodded. “I promise.”

His crossed fingers itched behind his back.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As soon as Mark had read the last file in his father’s cabinet, he was going to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground.

Folders were strewn everywhere, documents covered the table tops and yet, Mark was still none the wiser as to who the account number belonged to. It would make sense that his father had come across the account in his paperwork, especially if it was someone close to the family. However, it just didn’t exist in his archives; Mark had not found one mention of it. His men were scouring the city’s banks for the account number but he just couldn’t wait on them, almost jumping out of his skin at the need to know _now._

A knock sounded at the door. “Sir, Kim Yugyeom is here to see you.”

Mark nodded, surprised at the sudden visit from the younger man. He had seen Yugyeom at his father’s funeral but hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. Nevertheless, it was a good surprise and Mark hadn’t experienced that in a while. He’d been a good kid in school and, although he had been closer to Jinyoung, he had accompanied Mark and Bambam to the PC rooms many times.

Poking his head through the door, Yugyeom grinned widely. “Don Tuan, what a pleasure.”

Mark snorted; the younger was still the immature kid he remembered. “It’s good to see you, Yugyeom. Come in.”

Stepping into the office, Yugyeom span around in a circle, admiring the room before giving an impressed whistle. “You’re doing well for yourself, Don. Very old school.”

“Gotta keep some tradition, haven’t I?” Mark jested, standing to pour the two of them a drink. It had always felt easy with Yugyeom; the younger had never taken the lifestyle too seriously, despite being the son of a Don and, thus, the future heir to a family empire, and Mark had never felt any pressure to act Mafiosi around him.

Yugyeom kissed Mark’s hand before dropping into one of the brown leather chairs. Mark served him a glass of bourbon, returning to his chair with his own glass. “So, what brought on this sudden visit?”

“There’s an idea I’d like to propose to you.” Yugyeom began, taking a whiff of the bourbon and humming appreciatively. “But there’s one more person we’re waiting on.”

Narrowing his eyebrows at Yugyeom’s mischief, Mark went to question the younger man but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Instead of one of his men appearing, the last person he expected to see stood in the doorway.

“Hi, Mark.” Jinyoung greeted, smiling deviously.

 Mark groaned and let his head fall back against the chair.  “Is this a set-up?”

The two younger men laughed in united sneakiness, sounding to Mark like devils cackling together. Jinyoung and Yugyeom’s friendship was, quite possibly, one of the worst things to happen to Mark. They both loved to gang up on him, when they weren’t at war with each other, and loved to prank him too. Unfortunately, it never dampened Mark’s soft spot for the two and if his perpetual mortification gave them joy then it was a small win in his eyes.

“Now, now, Mark.” Jinyoung teased, crossing the room and dropping into the chair next to Yugyeom. “We’re not here to torment you.”

Mark squinted his eyes at the younger man. “The two of you guys’ mere existence is to torment me.”

Yugyeom screeched with laughter, slapping his leg and stomping his feet. Despite the sheer volume of noise that occurred when Yugyeom was amused, it had always made Mark feel good to make someone laugh that hard. He’d always been seen as the quiet, boring, unamusing one but even the smallest, unplanned jokes had Yugyeom cracking up; another reason for his soft spot for the younger man.

“We promise to go easy on you this time. Business, not pleasure. Scout’s honour.” Yugyeom crossed his heart, still grinning impishly. Mark could’ve argued that Yugyeom hadn’t even been in the Scouts but, instead, he nodded grudgingly.

Looking at the two men across from him, it felt like the old days at school; the three of them sitting at a table in the canteen, Jinyoung and Yugyeom passing the time whilst they waited for the other guys by taunting Mark mercilessly. So many things may have changed and they all may be in completely different places in their lives but they could slip back into their old dynamic so easily it was alarming.

As Mark opened his mouth to speak, Jinyoung reached across the table and snatched up Mark’s left hand, pressing a warm kiss into his skin. Mark’s mouth slammed shut jarringly. He stared at Jinyoung’s head bowed down to him, black fringe brushing against Mark’s skin, and it was so reverent, so _worshipful…_

Mark shivered.

“Me and Jinyoung have been talking…” Yugyeom broke the silence awkwardly and Jinyoung raised his head, dark eyes boring into Mark, before gently releasing his hand and leaning back in his chair. Shaking his head, Mark couldn’t hide the concerned look on his face. Jinyoung and Yugyeom coming together to formulate a plan? It could only mean world domination.

Yugyeom gave a shit-eating grin at Mark’s expression before continuing. “And we think it’s about time the new generation start working towards an alliance of the families.”

Mark was struck dumb; the proposal had been the last thing he’d expected to hear. Although Jaebum had met with him on a similar subject, he had wanted a partnership with Mark; a beneficial offer for both parties economically but an offer that could implode and result in war if one party pissed off the other in any way. An alliance, on the other hand, presented peace; it called for a ceasefire. It had never been done before and, in all honesty, Mark had major doubts it could even work. However, Yugyeom looked at him with conviction and Mark couldn’t help but think it could be more than a possibility.

“This is _his_ dumb idea. I’m just here for moral support.” Jinyoung asserted, rolling his eyes out of sheer exasperation. It made sense; Jinyoung had never been one for happily ever after’s. Yugyeom shushed his dissenter and focused on Mark.

“We will all lose if this rivalry continues.” His eyes implored Mark’s. “It poisoned our fathers. We can’t let it poison us.”

 _It’s too late for that,_ that venomous voice whispered in the back of his mind and a small part of Mark agreed. What else could he call the breakdown of his and Jinyoung’s relationship but poisoned? Poisoned by their families. Poisoned by their secrets. Poisoned by betrayal. They were already infected; polluted to the core without a cure in sight. He’d always been the more optimistic half of their relationship but, this time, he struggled to see the light at the end of the tunnel that Yugyeom saw.

“I want that, I really do.” Mark acknowledged, although he knew he had to be brutally honest. “But being a Don doesn’t necessarily mean you can rule like a dictator. You have to think… how will your men feel about it? Your sottocapo and your capos? If your family don’t agree with your decisions, it gives them reason to undermine you, or worse, to overthrow you.”

“And also,” Mark continued, “do your fathers know about your wishes for an alliance?”

Yugyeom was silent, the answer clear on his face, and Jinyoung rolled his eyes at the obvious answer to Mark’s question.

Mark grimaced. “I thought not. I’m sure your fathers would burst a blood vessel just knowing you’re here. I don’t want to cause any animosity in your families. Any more than I already have.”

Mark looked pointedly at Jinyoung who stared at Mark helplessly. Because it was true; the entirety of Mark and Jinyoung’s friendship had been plagued by Don Park’s disapproval. If he knew that at one point they had been _more_ than just friends, God knows what the older man would do. Mark’s existence had been the main reason for the issues between Jinyoung and his father. More than once Mark had thought about letting Jinyoung go, about ending their friendship just for peace in their family. Unfortunately, when it came to Jinyoung, Mark was an incredibly selfish man.

“Well, maybe it’s time we stop listening to our fathers!” Yugyeom declared, determination set in his face. Jinyoung’s face, on the other hand, crumpled in defeat; disobeying his father was not an option. Mark watched Jinyoung, the magnificent bird trapped in the tiny cage, and wanted more than anything for the idea of an alliance to work out. If it meant breaking Jinyoung’s chains, if it meant freeing him and watching him fly, Mark would give up just about anything.

“Please don’t get me wrong,” Mark raised his hands, wanting to clarify his position. “I support this idea just as much as you do. But I think you both need to go away and think about what exactly you’re willing to gain or lose for this. If we do this, it changes things forever. I need to know you both are ready for that.”

The proposition sat between the men, bringing them all to a combined hush. They’d never talked about their families laying down their arms before; it had seemed almost too taboo to even mention. However, as soon as the idea had been formulated, it would be impossible to forget. It was almost utopian in concept; the perfect world in their eyes. Of course, utopias didn’t exist and they were living in something more like a shitstorm at the moment but, the more Mark thought about it, the more he was through with the hostility. He hated living opposed to his friends, hated that they had to have this meeting in secret. Mark was done with secrets; they’d ruined his life long enough.

“Oh, Bubba! I didn’t know you had friends over!”

Mama stood in the doorway, smiling sweetly but looking awkward in posture. She had rarely ever entered the office when married to Mark’s father and standing just in the entryway made her feel like she was doing something she shouldn’t.

Mark rose from his chair, wanting to make his mother feel as comfortable as possible. “It’s okay Mama, we were just catching up on old times.”

Jinyoung and Yugyeom nodded simultaneously, eyes lighting up at the sight of Mark’s mother. She was well-loved amongst his friends; just like the family men, she treated her son’s friends like her own sons, showering them with affection and filling their stomachs with food.

“Well,” Mama brushed down her striped apron, “I was just going to call you for dinner, if your friends wanted to join?”

_Oh God._

Mark turned to Jinyoung and Yugyeom, keeping his back to his mother, and glared down at them, telling them with his mind to decline her offer.

“I think they’re busy, Mama…”

But he could already see it in their eyes; the gleam of an opportunity to make Mark’s life utter hell and revel in the entire experience.

“Oh no, Mama!” Jinyoung rose from his seat, smiling radiantly. “We’re never too busy for your incredible cooking! We’d be honoured to join you.”

Mark watched his mother’s face light up at the compliment and knew he was absolutely screwed.  He cursed whoever or whatever gave Jinyoung his unworldly gift of charisma; it had worked on him too many times to count.

“Come on through, boys!” Mama exclaimed, eagerly leading the boys to the dining room. “Liv is at ante-natal class but Bambam is already here, the more the merrier!”

Yugyeom’s neck almost snapped from the sheer force of his turn. “ _Bambam_ is here?”

“Oh my god.” Mark muttered under his breath.

Moving into the dining room, Mark spotted Bambam, sitting at the table and looking around the room like he was memorising every single detail. Or, more likely, remembering them after missing them for so long.

Breaking from his thoughts, Bambam noticed Mark at the front of the group of men and grinned cheekily. “Hey, boss.”

Mark refused to even deign the insolent little shit with an eye roll, moving to take a seat at the table before spotting his mother pulling out the chair at the head of the table. She smiled at him and patted the cushioned seat.

“Sit down, Bubba.”

He couldn’t refuse, partly because it would’ve upset his mother, but also because that was exactly where he was supposed to sit. Head of the table. Head of the family. He glanced at his usual seat, to the right of the head chair, where the first son would be expected to sit. Lowering himself into the high back red fabric seat, Mark had a completely different view of the dining room. He could view the Hokusai painting on the wall directly opposite him; see the red of Mount Fuji in all of its glory. He could see every face at the table visibly, make eye contact with them and not stare down at his lap like he had done as a boy. He’d always sat _at_ the table but, now, he was finally sitting _with_ the table.

As the two other men appeared in the room, Mark watched the brazen grin slip straight off Bambam’s face. “Yugyeom! I didn’t know you were you here, you…”

Yugyeom watched Bambam expectantly, eyes wide in anticipation.

Flustered, Bambam gaped his mouth for a few moments before sighing breathily. “Hi.”

Yugyeom beamed like he’d heard the best thing all week. “Hi to you too.”

This time, Mark had enough in him to roll his eyes at the two muddling idiots. His eyes fell on Jinyoung who turned to him with a fond grin. Once again, nothing had seemed to have changed even since school; Mark and Jinyoung watching the younger two hover around each other, never knowing when was the right moment to make a move. It had seemed so simple to the older two at that time; they hadn’t spent long toying back and forth or pining in silence. They fell into more than friends as easy as the rain fell. Maybe that had been their demise; when you fall, sooner or later, you come crashing down to the ground.

Bambam stumbled from his chair and dropped a quick kiss to Mark’s hand before scarpering back to his seat. Yugyeom quickly took the seat opposite from Bambam, the pair descending into eager conversation, talking too fast for Mark to keep up with. That left Jinyoung, standing hesitantly in the entranceway, unsure of where his place belonged.

“Sit here, sweetie.” Mama told Jinyoung, dragging out the chair to the left of Mark. The entire room stilled, Bambam and Yugyeom’s conversation dying out as they all stared at the chair in Mama’s hands.

Jinyoung shook his head strongly, incapable of hiding, for once, how panicked he was. “Uh… Mama, I really shouldn’t, that’s not a good idea.”

They all knew what that seat meant, what it represented; even Mama knew. She’d sat in it next to her husband nearly every night for 45 years.

Refusing to give in, Mama tapped the chair and smiled softly at Jinyoung. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart, come sit down. Or are you going to eat standing up?”

Jinyoung looked desperately at Mark but there was nothing he could say. There was no arguing with Mama; in a way, she was the Don during dinnertime. It was her seat to offer and she’d made up her mind. It was obvious where Mark seemed to get his stubbornness from.

With a defeated sigh, Jinyoung accepted the seat from Mama, lowering himself slowly as if he were about to sit on a cushion of thorns. As if his mind wished to torture him further, Mark was reminded of his childhood dinners, watching his father look to his left, look to his wife, and squeeze her hand gently in his, a rare tenderness Mark seldom ever saw from the patriarch. Turning to his left now, turning to Jinyoung, it was like another knife through his heart, another dig at where the pain from their breakdown still stung.

“Yugyeom,” Mark broke the discomforting tension, pouring glasses of water from a carafe for everyone at the table. “What’s been keeping you busy these days?”

The younger man chuckled self-consciously, scratching at his head. “I’m uh… I’m actually my father’s new enforcer.”

Mark’s eyes bulged and Bambam choked on his mouthful of water, coughing and spluttering unpleasantly. Yugyeom as an enforcer was like picturing an ant with a bazooka. The idea seemed ridiculous; as long as Mark had known the younger man, he’d never hurt a fly. Then again, Mark recalled the first time he had seen Yugyeom again at his father’s funeral, the barely repressed violence he’d seen rippling under the surface. Suddenly, the idea didn’t seem too far-fetched.

Jinyoung grinned proudly. “All those years beating on you and now look who’s doing the beating.”

“Hey, you never beat on me! We fought fair and square!” Yugyeom whined, his inability to ever admit defeat to Jinyoung showing. Their relationship hadn’t really made sense to Mark at first; smacking and kicking, punching and wrestling, throwing themselves at each other until they were rolling around on the ground. But, they always ended with a laugh or a hug and Mark had learnt that it was just their weird form of affection.

“Don’t make me come over there.” Jinyoung raised his fists playfully and the table laughed. A comfortable camaraderie settled over the group and Mark had missed it more than he’d realised. He had struggled to make friends in L.A., especially considering the language barrier, and most of the time there he had spent alone. In those moments of loneliness, he had always thought of home, of his family and friends and whether they missed him, what they thought of him now. Thinking of L.A. was like remembering another life, another version of him that didn’t exist anymore. He’d gone overseas to find himself, to live in the city where his father had been born, however, coming home, he had lost that Mark and would never get him back. And now, he still wasn’t really sure who he was entirely.

“I’ve made beef and radish soup!” Mama declared, swaying into the room with arms full of dishes. “I better see empty bowls!”

It took several trips to and from the kitchen for Mama to lay out all of the bowls of soup, rice, side dishes and cutlery but, finally, the table was set and she flopped into the chair to Mark’s right, clapping her hands together in anticipation. Mark grabbed his cutlery and began admiring the food his mother had prepared for them before noticing that no one had begun eating at the table. Instead, they were all staring at him. Waiting.

Slowly, Mark spooned up a serving of rice and began to eat, watching as immediately after, the rest of the table commenced eating. That should’ve been getting easier for him, the fact that everything had to happen at his word, but, instead, it was just getting stranger.

“Mama!” Bambam crowed, mouth full of food. “I’ve never tasted a better soup! I could kiss you right now!”

She chuckled at Bambam’s antics, face flushing with delight. Besides her garden, the one other thing Mama took most pride in was her cooking. Ever since she had been a child, she had enjoyed the pastime; creating meals that brought people such joy. She’d even tried attending a culinary school at one point in her early 20’s but the hustle and bustle had scared her and took out all of the enjoyment of the act. Instead, she preferred to cook at home, taking her time and serving those who mattered most in her life.

Grinning warmly at the younger man, she waggled her finger playfully. “Well, you better get used to it, sweetheart. I want to see you at this table most nights from now on, okay?”

The comment had been teasing in nature but Mark knew his mother meant so much more by it. Now that she had Bambam back in her life, a boy she had come to consider as her son, sober and healthy, when, at one point, she had thought him dead, Mark could tell she was not prepared to lose that as easily again. The loss of her husband had triggered her to pull ranks and keep those she loved close to her, protective instincts kicking in. He wanted, more than anything, to promise his mother that she would never lose anyone ever again. But, he thought of the mystery hitman, of the tombstone in his nightmare, and knew that kind of promise would just be empty words.

“Jinyoung,” Mama addressed, picking up some kimchi with her chopsticks, “it’s been so long, sweetheart, how have you been?”

Jinyoung cleared his throat and smiled appreciatively. “I’ve been well, thank you, Mama. It was great to speak to you earlier this week, you always give the most helpful advice.”

Mark looked between the two in confusion. When did they speak? At his father’s funeral? How hadn’t he noticed it? He wondered what they had spoken about; they probably hadn’t seen each other since Mark had left, having no reason to. Mark had not forgotten his mother’s fondness for Jinyoung; out of all of his friends, he had always been well aware that Jinyoung was her favourite. In a way, that fact had hurt even worse than if his mother didn’t care for Jinyoung. Because she loved him as Mark’s _friend._ She had never known all of the happiness Jinyoung had brought to Mark’s life as more than that. During those days, he had wanted to tell his mother, to see her light up and squeal and tell him how proud she was of him. He’d wanted her to be happy for him.

But, every kid wonders how their parent is going to react when they tell them who they _really_ are. And Mark had wondered a lot. He’d thought about whether it would shatter his parents’ image of him, how much it would change their relationship, whether they’d turn their backs on him or welcome him with open arms. Realising he was bisexual had rocked Mark’s world. He had experienced the worst fear and anxiety in his life. It was a secret that had walked beside him through years of his life. However, it had healed a tear in his soul he’d never even realised he’d had. It had opened his eyes; he’d finally felt like he understood his heart.

Coming out to his friends had been a slow process. He’d heard the horror stories; people thinking they knew their friends as accepting when the exact opposite occurred. He didn’t want to lose them but also knew they were not worth having if they couldn’t love him for who he was. He hadn’t needed to worry though. What he had not realised was that some of his friends had been carrying secrets of their own too and, eventually, they all came out to each other in their own ways at their own pace. He hadn’t felt so alone for once, like he finally had people who understood him.

Looking back now, he still had regrets. He regretted keeping the truth from his mother for so long. He regretted lashing out at them in certain moments when he knew it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t understand his pain. He regretted the fact that he would never have the chance to come out to his father. His father would never know and that was a heavy blow to Mark’s chest.

“You must be so happy to see the boys again, Bubba.” Mama beamed with delight at her son being reunited with his friends. “Especially Jinyoung, the two of you were so close.”

 _Keep it together_ , he had to keep it together, or everyone would know immediately, it would be written on his face. He saw Jinyoung grip his chopsticks tightly out of the corner of his eye and they were being too obvious, he could feel it, he needed to diffuse the tension.

“It’s been great to catch up with everyone and, of course, it’s been even greater to eat your incredible cooking again, Mama.” Mark smiled as cheerfully as he could muster and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Mark and I didn’t have much to catch up on anyway.” Jinyoung blew at his spoon of soup, his casual aside riling Mark up.

He grinned tightly. “Yeah, it seems I wasn’t missed as much as I thought.”

All thoughts of tension diffusing were thrown out of the window. Mark refused to let Jinyoung’s discreet jabs slide and, of course, that resulted in him being just as petty and spiteful. It worked; Jinyoung’s eyes snapped to him, glaring severely.

“Well, you can’t miss people who don’t call.” Jinyoung bit back, adamant in getting the last word.

Bambam glanced back and forth between the two older men cautiously. “I’m sure Mark had a reason for not calling.”

“What,” Jinyoung spun in his seat, laser focus switching to his new target, “just like you had a reason for walking out on your family?”

There was no need for the remark; it was unnecessarily cruel because of how true it was. Bambam didn’t need to be reminded of his mistakes. He was paying for them every day. However, Jinyoung loved to point the finger when the spotlight was on him and Bambam had been collateral damage. Both Bambam and Yugyeom glared at the older man and Mark couldn’t imagine the dinner getting any worse.

“Jackson, honey! Come in and grab a seat!”

Oh dear God, he had spoken too soon.

Despite Mama’s invite, Jackson remained fixed in the doorway, eyes set on Jinyoung.

“What’s _he_ doing here?”

Jinyoung looked away from his staring battle with Bambam to the voice at the door and, somehow, scowled even harder. Mark could sense a disaster approaching on the horizon and he would not allow it to happen in front of his mother under her roof.

“Jinyoung is a guest in my and my mother’s home, Jackson.” Mark grinded his teeth and tried to glower the other man into acquiescence. “Now, if you’d like to sit down and join us for dinner, then feel free.”

Removing a cigarette from his pack, Jackson snorted crudely. “I’ll pass. I don’t agree with eating with dogs at the dinner table.”

It was like a bomb had gone off; the room fell into a deathly silence. Mark was too infuriated at the offence and disrespect the situation had brought his mother to even speak. Breaking the hush jarringly, Jinyoung pushed his chair out with a screech and left to the kitchen with an excuse of needing to wash his hands.

Still provoked, Mark grabbed his bowl and faked to go for seconds, marching into the kitchen and letting the door swing closed behind him. Jinyoung looked away from the window, eyes storming as soon as they landed on Mark.

“What the hell were you playing at?” Mark seethed, slamming his bowl down atop the counter, soup splashing over. He hated that Jinyoung had to seek a reaction from him, had to poke and pick at him like a scab until he got exactly what he wanted.

“ _I_ was playing us down.” Jinyoung emphasised, justifying how he was right and Mark was wrong, the usual narrative. “What the fuck were _you_ playing at?”

“What did _I_ do?!” Mark’s voice rose enough that the other room might’ve heard him and Jinyoung shushed him.

“I can’t fucking believe what you said!” Jinyoung fumed, stabbing his index finger into Mark’s chest, causing him to take a step backwards. “You really think I didn’t miss you?!”

Mark had no clue what to say. The last contact they’d ever had was Jinyoung’s text he’d read at the airport and that was crystal clear for Mark. They were done. He thought they were done.

Were they done?

“You… absolute fucking _idiot_.” Jinyoung hissed, shoving at Mark’s chest. Mark could tell the other was infuriated with the swearwords pouring from his mouth; the younger man tended not to curse unless he was particularly enraged.

Jinyoung looked stricken, face white and eyes wide in disbelief. “How could I _not_ miss you?! You were everything to me, Mark! The most important person in my life! I missed you every single day, every single hour; it was the only thing I knew how to do. I became an expert at missing you.”

In the silence of the kitchen, Mark finally realised that he wasn’t the only one whose heart had broken ten years ago. He wasn’t the only one who had mourned.

“But…” Mark’s eyebrows furrowed, the past decade of suffering crashing down on him. “Your text… you said…”

“I know what I fucking said.” Jinyoung snapped, face flushed from his confession. “Of course I didn’t mean it, you know how I get in the heat of the moment. I’d just found out you’d flown to the other side of the world, how else was I supposed to react?”

The shaky soil Mark had been standing upon was beginning to tremble as everything Mark had thought he’d known disintegrated. A lot of shit had happened in the week leading up to his departure, he couldn’t be blamed for thinking that they were finished. Jinyoung had made his decision.

“You didn’t…” Mark’s mouth felt full of cotton, barely able to form the words. “You _didn’t choose me._ ”

Jinyoung threw his hands up in the air, sighing exasperatedly. “Mark, it was my goddamn father, what could I do?”

“He was going to have me thrown in _jail_ , Jinyoung!” Mark yelled and the dining room definitely heard that.

It was the first time they had talked about it, or even mentioned it, since the week leading up to Mark leaving for L.A. Mark had been running a job for his father; it was the early days of his initiation, he'd only just sworn Omertà, and the Don had wanted to test him by delivering a pound of cocaine. Mark had called to the recipient’s house to find Don Park already there. An argument had ensued, Don Park assuming that Mark was there on behalf of his father to steal business from him, and had threatened to get the police involved.

It was a disgustingly low move for a Don; to get the cops entangled in family business over something so trivial that could’ve simply been straightened out. Getting caught trafficking in the country could result in substantial jail time. However, decades-long grudges had reared their ugly heads and, combined with Don Park’s hatred of Mark and Jinyoung’s friendship, he had informed the cops about Mark’s deal. Consiglieres on both sides had tried to arrange mediations, negotiations, anything that could lessen the damage but Don Park had been resolute. Eventually, Mark’s father had bought the cops and the local courthouse off and the whole debacle had gone away but the harm had already been done. Mark had pleaded with Jinyoung to make his father see sense, begged him to stand up for Mark and finally take his side. They were supposed to be more important to each other than all of this family bullshit. But, Jinyoung had shook his head, looked him dead in the eyes and said:

_“I’m not going against my father, Mark. Not for anyone.”_

And that was that.

The line had been drawn in the sand. To Jinyoung, Mark had not been worth fighting for. The dark underbelly of his father’s life was drowning him. Two days later, he had bought the plane ticket.

“He was trying to ruin my life.” Mark continued, chest rising and falling harshly. “And you stood by and did nothing.”

“Oh my god! _Yes_ , okay?!” Jinyoung cried distraughtly, voice cracking. “Is that what you want?! I admit it, I was terrified of my father and I didn’t want to lose my family so I left you to hang and I’ve regretted it every single day since!”

There it was; the acceptance of blame and accountability that Mark had been waiting to hear for years. The truth about betrayal is that although the act is the first, unexpected hit at trust, it’s the pieces you’re left with to pick up that is the finishing blow. Living with the consequences of betrayal is like ripping a bandaid off every day, like stabbing at an already open wound, like coughing up water from being drowned. It’s the after-trauma, the painful readjustment to having your world rocked, to realising you never knew a person at all. Vulnerability becomes your enemy. Weakness becomes your adversary. Betrayal is the foundation of a person’s wall; the beginning of human beings fortifying themselves against ever feeling that sting of treachery again.

Seeing Jinyoung stand before him, hands shaking and eyes welling up, Mark, at last, felt like maybe he could begin pulling bricks out, like he could finally demolish his wall. Because the fact of the matter was, a wall may protect you from ever getting hurt again but it blocked you off from your heart, never allowing you to heal. Your pain festered over time until trust became just a five-letter word. If he kept yelling at the world, he’d eventually lose his voice. Mark refused to let that happen.

“We both made mistakes.” Mark admitted, stepping slowly towards Jinyoung. “I shouldn’t have just taken off. I was a scared, immature kid who had no idea how to deal with everything that was happening.”

“You could’ve called.” Jinyoung scolded, eyebrows frowned together. “We could’ve talked things out, even if that had meant you staying in L.A.”

Mark snorted at Jinyoung’s apparent maturity. “I think we _both_ know how that phone call would’ve gone.”

“Okay, fair enough.” Jinyoung chuckled, tugging his jacket sleeve over his hand and wiping at a few stray tears that had escaped. Moving forward, Mark smoothed his thumb over Jinyoung’s cheek, erasing away a missed tear.

“I hate being the reason you cry.”

Jinyoung placed his hand over Mark’s upon his cheek, skin warm and smooth. “Then start making me smile.”

It was natural, almost instinctive, to pinch at the pink of Jinyoung’s cheek and watch his eyes glitter happily and his mouth turn up, crinkles and laugh lines all over his face. Their eyes caught onto each other, latched, fixed, and there was no need for thinking, no need to hesitate. Mark leaned in and kissed Jinyoung gently, brushing their lips together, re-learning the sensation again. Still for just a few seconds, Jinyoung pushed forward, running his hand through the back of Mark’s hair before resting it on his neck, stroking his thumb mindlessly, soothingly, against his skin.

It was slow and it was soft, a reacquaintance of intimacy. Mark drifted his fingertips up and down Jinyoung’s spine, fitting his hands into curves and dips he had never forgotten, and tugged Jinyoung closer, close enough to feel the heartbeat racing against his own. He savoured it, the press of their lips together, the caresses of Jinyoung’s hands, the heat of their closeness. He fell into it, deepening the kiss, tilting into Jinyoung, hands trembling as they gripped at Jinyoung’s waist. They still fit perfectly, it was all he could think about, the single thought that consumed him. They still fit perfectly.

“Bubba? You okay in there?”

They broke apart, Jinyoung bumping back into the counter, both of them panting harshly. Neither of them had any clue how much time had passed but Mark could guess enough time to make those still in the dining room a little wary. They stared at each other silently; there weren’t enough words in the world to convey what had just happened, what had been set in motion.

“Go back out.” Mark whispered, already missing the feel of Jinyoung against him, the warmth of his body, the taste of his lips. “I’ll follow you out in a minute.”

Jinyoung nodded mutely and walked past Mark, squeezing his arm fleetingly before leaving for the dining room. Through the door, Mark could hear his upbeat voice complimenting Mama’s cooking and poking fun at Yugyeom. He sounded normal, composed; he never usually needed a few minutes to collect himself like Mark did.

Gazing out of the window at the garden, Mark could spot exactly where they had kissed for the first time. They’d been fifteen years old, camping out under the stars on a humid summer night, listening to the crickets’ chirp and street cats yowl. Mark had made Jinyoung laugh so hard the younger had to grip his stomach, rolling around on top of his sleeping bag uncontrollably from the force of his amusement. Despite the sweltering air, Mark’s cheeks were heated solely due to his friend, to the pure joy he felt just hearing his giggles, to feelings he had been trying to decipher for a while but all made sense that night. Jinyoung had finished rolling around, flopping onto his side facing Mark, beaming at him so beautifully Mark had to kiss him, he just had to. And Jinyoung had kissed him back, still giggling infectiously against Mark’s mouth. It was one of Mark’s favourite nights of his life.

It all came rushing back. Fragmented pieces sliding back in place and waiting for the one piece that had been missing. The piece he had left with Jinyoung the day he had left. It was a homecoming.

He wondered if his father had seen, if he was looking down at him now and had seen, for the first time, who his son truly was, who his son truly loved.

Mark hoped he would be proud.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

                           

Jazz music played softly from the radio as Mark and his mother washed the dishes from dinner, knocking their hips together and playfully splashing the water. Dinner had ended in a subdued manner but no one had continued to argue, which was a plus. Mark wondered if his mother was disheartened by the tensions that had flared during the meal, however, she didn’t show it, humming tranquilly to a Billie Holliday record.

Jackson had stormed off whilst Mark and Jinyoung had been in the kitchen, disappearing upstairs to his room. Mark knew he would have to have a word with the younger man sooner or later; his behaviour had been completely unacceptable. Although, he had to admit that he knew it only came from a place of caution for Mark; he didn’t want to watch his brother make the same mistakes as the past. It was assuring to know Jackson had his best interests at heart but, if he and Jinyoung were going to be anything or nothing, Mark couldn’t accept Jackson insulting or disparaging Jinyoung any longer.

“Bubba?”

Mark hummed, drying a dish methodically with a tablecloth.

“I know.”

Mark looked over at his mother, eyebrows furrowed amusedly. “Know what, Mama?”

His mother continued to scrub at the glass in her hands. “About you and Jinyoung.”

Mark’s body ran cold. “What about me and Jinyoung?”

She didn’t have to say a thing; just one look at him and Mark knew exactly what she was implying.

The tablecloth slipped from his hands, his fingers shaking. “H-How? How did you know?”

“You think I wouldn’t know my own son?” Placing her hands on her hips, she raised an eyebrow at her son. “You may be an excellent secret-keeper, Bubba, but you can’t hide your heart from your mama.”

The urge to vomit rose in Mark’s throat, burning his eyes until his vision was a blur. What could he say? She had been the one to teach him about secrets; she had told him that someday he would have his own, his own secrets even from her. He didn’t even know where to begin, how to explain to his own mother that the Mark she knew, the son she had raised, was not who she thought he was. The possibility of losing his mother, so soon after losing his father, just because of who he was as a person, nearly brought Mark to his knees.

“And you’re…” Mark swallowed, throat coarse and dry, “okay with it?”

Dropping the glass in her hand back into the pan of water, Mama held his hands in her own soapy-wet ones and looked him dead in the eyes, gaze tender and unwavering.

“Bubba… you are the most incredible young man I’ve ever known and nothing could change that.” She smiled, her warm brown eyes watering. “And I’m not saying that just because I’m incredibly biased.”

Mark chuckled wetly, tears running down his face as he embraced his mother, squeezing her tightly in his arms. She only came up to his chest, her soft grey hair tickling underneath his chin. He felt her tears dampen his shirt and it only made him cry harder, guttural sobs wrenched from his chest from years of hiding himself, years of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He could almost feel the phantom arms of his father around the two of them, enveloping them both in his warmth.

“Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are.” Mama murmured against his t-shirt, holding her only son firmly, pressing her conviction into him. “I gave birth to you exactly as you are and it was the greatest gift of my life. I’m so proud of you and what you’ve done for us, Bubba. Be proud of yourself, too.”

Secrets had kept Mark in shadows for most of his life, hiding himself from the world in case it fell apart if anyone found out. And yet, this was the one secret, the one that had tortured him for so long, that, when revealed, made him feel completely and utterly whole. Honesty was cathartic; it had freed him from the chains that had held him down. There was no shame, no excuses, no humiliation; he was totally and unapologetically himself.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Mark glanced up from his mother and regarded Jackson lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded over his chest self-consciously.

“Of course not, honey!” Mama crowed, leaning back from Mark and wiping at her face with a chuckle. “We’re all finished here and I’m going to take a long, hot bath. You two talk now, I’m not having any issues in this house.”

She pointed her finger warningly at the two young men before grinning, kissing her son on the cheek and patting Jackson on the arm as she left the room. They stood in silence for a moment, unsure of where to start with each other. Mark hating arguing with the younger man; he was too important to him to quarrel over insignificant matters.

“Mama knows.” Mark began, rubbing his damp hands against his trousers. “About me being bi. And Jinyoung. She’s probably known for a long time.”

Jackson’s eyebrows shot up before he nodded in acceptance; if anyone could’ve worked it out on their own, it would’ve been Mama. He observed Mark’s slack shoulders and face clear of frown or stress lines and smiled.

“I’m happy for you. I know how long this has played on your mind and bothered you. And… I know my issues with Jinyoung bother you as well.”

The older bowed his head, not saying a word to allow his friend to continue.

“He did you wrong in a lot of ways.” Jackson maintained, refusing to deny what he had witnessed for years. “But I know that people mess up in relationships and you were an asshole to him in a lot of ways too.”

“It’s just…” Jackson paused, face scrunching up. “There’s so many people out there who want to hurt you, Mark, and my job, not just as your consigliere but as your _brother_ , is to protect you. Even from people you love and who love you back.”

“Jinyoung doesn’t lov--” Mark interrupted stubbornly but Jackson waved his hand at him, shutting down his denial.

“Yes he does, you goombah. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that… I’m sorry. And, if what you want is Jinyoung… then I’m willing to move past my differences with him and go forward. For you.” Jackson finished, huffing a weary sigh; the younger always hated admitting when he was wrong.

Mark grinned delightedly and strode towards the younger man, drawing him into a hug and slapping him on the back.

Jackson groaned, attempting to worm his way out of the embrace. “Okay, okay, that’s enough, ya big softie, I can barely breathe here!”

They were both dummies, and stubborn ones at that, but they were brothers so Mark held him just a little bit tighter for a little bit longer, Jackson whining and slapping at him the entire time.

Mark would admit that he may have slapped back a few times. They were still dummies, after all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The week passed in a non-stop blur of files and documents as Mark continued to scour his father’s archives for the account number. Empty cabinets and drawers left a sour taste in Mark’s mouth; the feeling of something that was absent and unaccounted for. He was beginning to run out of options, reaching the last few drawers without any success. He was particularly focussed that night, distracting his mind from thinking about the family meeting taking place as he was working.

Youngjae had visited a few hours before the beginning of the meeting, verifying what he needed to do and seeking assurances from Mark that he was capable of doing the job. Mark trusted the younger man; however, he still felt an acute anxiety that something was just… off. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Excuse me, sir?” One of the men called from the doorway. He held an enormous bouquet of flowers, almost entirely covering his face from view.

“What the hell?” Mark furrowed his eyebrows, accepting the bouquet from the man and nodding at him in gratitude. Freesias; yellow, purple and white. Mark’s favourite. He noticed a gold card placed in the middle of the flowers and plucked it free, turning it over to find a message or name of sender.

There were no words or name attached. Just a symbol.

_Trouble._

The gnawing unease that had eaten at Mark since Youngjae had left only worsened and he threw the note to the floor. Jinyoung had to be at the meeting as well, something had to have happened to worry him that much to send a coded message to Mark. Nerves on edge, Mark grabbed his coat and marched out of the office, calling for the car to be brought around to the front. He couldn’t ignore Jinyoung’s call; he had the horrible feeling that if he did, something terrible would happen.

“Hey!” Jackson shouted from the top of the stairs, jogging down to Mark. “What’s going on?”

“I got a note from Jinyoung and…” Mark shook his head. “I don’t know, I just feel like something’s wrong and I need to go to the meeting.”

He watched as Jackson nodded and began to pull his shoes on before looking up at Mark, his face set in determination. “Well… you didn’t think you were going alone, did you?”

The two men ran to the Rolls Royce pulled up at the front door, Jackson handing out orders for an extra protection detail to follow. Unsteadily fastening his seatbelt, Mark’s stomach continued to churn nauseatingly. Jinyoung could’ve meant anything by the symbol; he’d used it in all types of contexts, from the insignificant to the important. It had always been vague and made Mark’s heart skip a beat because he never knew what he was going to find.

“It’s probably nothing, boss.” Jackson reassured, before removing a Glock from a pocket inside his suit jacket. Mark stared speechlessly at the younger man as he loaded a magazine and pulled the slide to chamber a round. Returning the gun to his pocket, Jackson smirked at him brazenly.

“But it’s always better to be prepared.”

The only detail that had been sent out about the meeting had been the location; a local hotel named The Ivory. Grand in scale and decadence, it was just the kind of elegant setting for a mob family meeting. Slowing to a stop in front of the building, Mark glanced out of the window at the towering hotel, light spilling out from the windows, valets slouched at the front, smoking to pass the time.  

Jackson shuffled over to Mark’s side of the car, surveying the hotel from the window. “Is the meeting even finished yet?”

“It should be soon.” Mark replied, opening the door and stepping out. Light rain dotted his face and Mark noticed that the clouds had darkened over; a sign of an incoming storm. Leaning against the vehicle, Mark’s eyes stayed fixed at the front door, ready for Jinyoung, ready for a sign, ready for anything. The street was empty, most likely the doing of the families to get some privacy, and the air was still, noiseless, except for the odd rumbling of thunder.

A few minutes into waiting, the doors of the hotel swung open and a lone figure strolled out onto the pavement, lifting the collar of their coat up to try and protect themselves from the rain. Mark squinted his eyes across the road, trying to catch a glimpse of their face under the streetlight. The figure made its way down the street, walking directly opposite to Mark’s car and it only took one flash of lightning for Mark to recognise who the figure was.

“Youngjae!”

The younger stopped in his path, head spinning around before spotting Mark across the road, and waved. Checking for any cars, Mark began making his way towards Youngjae. Thunder roared deafeningly before fading; fading just before the gunshot.

It seemed to split the air and Mark’s ears rang, throwing off his balance as he stumbled forward. Vision blurred, ears ringing, he whirled around in a circle, his surroundings foggy and distorted, and saw Youngjae still in front of him, unmoving. Lightning flashed again.

Youngjae’s shirt was red.

“YOUNGJAE!”

Mark ran, he ran as fast and as hard as he could push his legs to do, sprinting across the road to the younger man, and caught him as his knees buckled, bringing them both to the ground. He tried to find the wound, find the entry point; maybe he could press down on it, staunch it until the medics got there.

“Call an ambulance! Somebody call an ambulance, please!”

The blood didn’t seem to come from just one place, it was… everywhere. Everywhere Mark moved his hands, they came back wet and bloodied. Youngjae was gasping harshly, struggling to find the air to help him speak.

Mark looked over his shoulder, trying to find anyone to help, there had to be _someone._ He spotted Jackson wrestling someone to the ground and knew he was no use. His protection detail was nowhere to be seen. He fumbled for the phone in his pocket with a curse, typing in the emergency number and holding the device to his ear, when, suddenly, Youngjae gripped his hand tightly.

“Mark, don’t—”

“Don’t speak!” Mark cut Youngjae off, stroking the younger’s rain-soaked hair out of his face. “Keep your energy until the ambulance gets—Yes, hello?! I need an ambulance now, The Ivory Hotel, my friend has been shot!”

He could barely hear the operator over the blood rushing in his ears, over his drumming heartbeat, over Youngjae’s shaky pants. The operator told him to hold the wound to stop the bleeding but he couldn’t find it, he couldn’t _find it,_ God, there was so much blood, his entire vision was red.

“Just… stop.” Youngjae wheezed, patting his hand up Mark’s arm to get his attention. “Listen to me.”

“I need to stop the bleeding, Youngjae, tell me where it is.” Mark pleaded, pushing the younger’s shirt up as best he could without hurting him any further.

“I’m so glad… you came home.” Youngjae murmured, smiling as brightly as the lightning striking the sky. “And that I got to see you again… my friend...”

The heavens opened and rain lashed down on them, flowing the blood down the street, painting the asphalt a murky red.

“Thank yo—” Youngjae coughed, body jolting with shudders. “Thank you… for giving me Cosa Nostra. You… will always be my family.”

Mark couldn’t do it, he couldn’t see it, his eyes were too blurred with the rain and his tears. He pulled Youngjae against his chest and held the young man, rocking him gently, like Youngjae was his child.

“Stay with me. The ambulance is coming, Youngjae, I just need you to stay here, okay?”

The younger’s eyes moved up to watch the clouds. “Okay. It’ll stop raining. Soon. I promise. Mark…”

“Yeah?” Mark looked down.

Thunder clapped.

“Youngjae? Youngjae! Hey, Youngjae, wake up. C’mon, you gotta keep your eyes open. Look at me, Youngjae. Please, Youngjae! Oh my God, someone, please! Help me! _Youngjae!”_

And it rained.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry  
> let me know what you think of this chapter! how do you think mark and the boys will react to youngjae's death? what do you think mark will do next? who is behind don tuan and youngjae's deaths?!! tell me your theories!
> 
> until next week!! thank you for reading!!


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! welcome back! I hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think! enjoy!
> 
> chapter warnings - descriptions/scenes of torture and a panic attack

 

 

He hadn’t been planning to wear a tie again so soon.

The storm had let up, rain barely a light shower, bearable enough for the hearses to drive slowly down the gravel road of the cemetery. Stone after stone rushed past the window; Mark could barely catch one to read a name.

Cemeteries had always been a strange concept in general to him. Boxes in the ground, bouquets of flowers slowly dying, gravestones worn down over time until the names were unrecognisable and no one was left alive to recognise them anyway. He never felt like it did the person gone any justice. Then again, the ceremony wasn’t for them. It was for everyone else still left here.

He was supposed to be ‘saying his goodbyes’ today, that’s what the mortician had told him. Finding peace. That was unlikely to happen; how can you find peace when you’re still at war?

“We gather here to commend our brother, our son, our friend, Youngjae, to God our Father and commit his body to the earth…”

The crowd was hushed; even those who had cried at the church had emptied themselves dry. Wind whistled through the sycamore trees, scattering leaves across the soil. They’d sung their hymns already; rejoiced in the name of the Lord in his holy house, celebrated the beginning of life, what comes after life and all the messy in-between. Youngjae had loved to sing, had dragged Mark to Sunday service and midnight mass many a time to watch him in the church choir. A congregation of people, and yet, Mark would only hear Youngjae’s voice, soaring above the others, above the roof of the church and into the clouds.

“As Jesus Christ was raised from the dead, we too are called to follow him through death to the glory where God will be all in all.”

It was still overcast; dark and gloomy with the rhythmic clap of thunder. If Youngjae had really gone up there, up wherever He talks about, it would be sunny, Mark reasoned. The sun would be shining so brightly he would have to squint his eyes. But if he wasn’t there, then where else would he have gone?

“Before we go our separate ways, let us take leave of our brother. May our farewell express our affection for him; may it ease our sadness and strengthen our hope. One day we shall joyfully greet him again when the love of Christ, which conquers all things, destroys even death itself.”

The chill bite of the air stung Mark’s skin and he pocketed his hands in his trousers, hiding the curl of his fingers into fists. A crow cawed from somewhere deeper in the churchyard.

It was just words, really, wasn’t it? Destroying death, conquering, greeting Youngjae again as if he’s standing at the pearly-white gates with arms outstretched right at that moment. Waiting for them. How long would he have to wait? Was he lonely? Youngjae had always preferred company; he had always found silences and empty rooms uncomfortable.

 _Please make sure he’s not alone,_ Mark asked someone, anyone, who was listening.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He had requested to be a bearer, almost begged, but the people at the funeral home had refused, maintaining that it would be improper for the Don to carry the casket. His hands twitched, jerking at the urge to carry his capo, carry his _friend._

Now, with the dirt of the soil digging into his fingernails, he wished for that reckoning to occur now. However it was meant to happen; a light striking down from the sky, almighty hellfire or heavenly glory, rising up all that had been lost. Destroying. Conquering.

But nothing happened. The wind continued to whistle. The minister continued to sermon. Youngjae was still gone.

Mark threw the soil mechanically, moving on autopilot. He looked down at his hands, brown and grimy. They had been red, so red, just a week ago.

This was Youngjae now. A patch of land. A stone. Words etched into granite amongst rows of angels and crosses, blending into the landscape until he was just another grey marker of someone who had been loved, someone whose absence continued to ache.

“Don Tuan?”

Turning to his left, Mark froze at the sight of Arthur Choi. He seemed even more frail and hunched than usual, curved over and leaning on a walking stick. The black of his suit accentuated the ashen paleness of his face and Mark swallowed painfully.

“Mr Choi, my warmest regards.”

Too weary to correct him, the elder man embraced Mark with a fierceness that reminded him of his father. It was a hug for sons, for the young boys who were trying their best to shine in their father’s eyes. It should’ve been a hug for Youngjae.

Patting Mark on the back one last time, Arthur winced and leant back on his stick, taking the weight off of his pained leg. “I hope we’ll be seeing you at the wake, Subin would love to see you.”

“Of course I’ll be there, Mr Choi.” Mark squeezed the older man’s shoulder reassuringly, although he didn’t know whether it was he or Arthur who needed the reassurance. The older man smiled slightly before his face dimmed, clouding over with a stern determination.

“May I ask one more thing of you, Don?”

“Anything.” Mark breathed out; if there was something he could give to Youngjae’s father, he would try with all his might to do it. “You can ask me for anything.”

“Find the son of a bitch who did this to my son.” He gripped Mark’s hand in his own, pressing the loss into Mark’s skin, pressing the bereavement, the agony, pressing Youngjae into Mark so brutally that it should burn. Burn into Mark’s soul in the unforgettable shape of his friend.

“And kill him.”

Mark nodded. In truth, it was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

Jackson appeared by his side, murmuring quietly in his ear. “I’ve brought the car around.”

Nodding in reply, Mark clasped Arthur by the shoulder one last time before bidding his goodbyes, following Jackson down the grass toward the road. Hearses waited in lines to take the funeralgoers to the wake, shining with rainwater. The stone church rose high in front of him, intimidating Mark under its formidable shadow. Reaching the Escalade, Jackson nodded at their driver and opened the car door for Mark, the two men climbing inside.

“We’ve found the men from the protection detail who ran that night.” Jackson lit up a cigarette, winding down the window by an inch to let the smoke trail out. “We’re waiting on what you would like to do with them.”

Mark leant his head back against the car seat, sighing the tension out of his body. The men who ran that night were supposed to have kept him safe. They could’ve stopped the shooter, they could’ve called emergency services, they could’ve helped him staunch Youngjae’s wound just a little while longer. Instead, they had been paid off and disappeared at the first sound of a gunshot. Even still, Mark couldn’t feel any anger towards them. He couldn’t feel anything towards them, in fact. All of his rage was reserved for whoever was the puppet master pulling the strings.

“Do whatever you think is suitable. I don’t want them anywhere near me.” Mark decided, reaching to loosen his tie before crushing his hand into a fist and dropping it into his lap. Glancing over at his friend, Mark could already see the glint in Jackson’s eyes, the gears turning in his head, deciding how much pain you could put a single person through before you broke them completely.

“The wake is at The White Hart, Gus, can you head there please?” Mark called to the driver who started the engine almost immediately.

Drizzle turned into downpour and, soon enough, the windscreen wipers were flying back and forth in order to see anything out of the front window.

Mark rubbed his hand through the condensation on the window. “What did you get out of the shooter?”

“Not much.” The younger man huffed, brushing stray ash from his trousers. “He ain’t a talker, unfortunately. He’s just gotta be cracked, like a nice lil egg.”

Mark chewed at his lip, mulling over his thoughts, before nodding to himself. “Call Yugyeom. Get him down to the house later. I’d like to see him in action.”

Jackson grinned, already a fan of the idea. If the rumours Mark had begun to hear were anything to go by, being alone in a room with Yugyeom when he needed information from you was nothing short of terrifying. He’d heard talks of a ‘goodie bag’; Yugyeom’s stash of ‘tools of persuasion’ that he liked to use on those less willing to spill. And Mark needed this guy to spill.

Shutting the window with a grumble, Jackson wiped the droplets of rain that had splashed on his face. “Jesus Christ, when will this rain let up?”

 _Soon,_ Mark remembered, looking out at the black clouds stirring up a storm above. _Youngjae said soon._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The White Hart was an old haunt for the mob, tucked away in an alley on the outskirts of the city, far from prying eyes. Black wooden tables with sticky surfaces, burner oil lamps and an authentic 19th century bar with almost any ale you could think of on tap. A real spit-and-sawdust pub that the Chois had visited regularly for years; the White Hart was uncomfortably warm, loud and full of Mafiosi. Mark had joined them once, sitting around a table with the two Choi men and snorting with laughter at Youngjae coughing his first bitter ale back up in surprise.

He spotted Mrs Choi across the room, surrounded by women clucking about the food like mother hens. A small, beautiful woman with an eternal elegance to her, Subin Choi looked every inch the mob wife; big hair, stunning clothes and dripping in jewellery. She was still, almost statuesque, like time had stopped around her. Mark watched her stare into space like she wasn’t even present in her own body and gave into the urge to walk over to her.

Stepping into the gaggle of women, Mark placed his hand on Mrs Choi’s arm softly, jolting her out of wherever her mind had taken her. “Mrs Choi, sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Oh no, not at all, sweetheart.” Mrs Choi assured, patting Mark’s hand on her arm softly and leading the two of them away from the group. “I’ll be glad for the peace and quiet, to be honest.”

Mark chuckled lowly; even on what was most likely the worst day of her life, Mrs Choi was so unfailingly bright it left him speechless.

The older woman leaned her body against Mark’s, deflating like a popped balloon. “You don’t mind if we stay here for a bit, do you? I know you must be busy, Don, but… I’m just so tired…”

He couldn’t deny her this one luxury; space from the crowds of people who didn’t know the right thing to say, didn’t know whether to smile or cry, didn’t know that all the hugs that day were like pillows smothering her in her sleep.

“I would like nothing more than to sit here with you, Mrs Choi.” Mark smiled down at her, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Lowering the two of them into a scratched up brown leather booth, Mark reached across the table and poured two cups of tea, handing one to Mrs Choi. He knew no one would approach them without a good enough reason; no one interrupted the Don when he had so obviously moved to have a private conversation with someone.

Contemplating the room of funeralgoers, Mrs Choi enveloped the cup of tea in her hands and shivered slightly. “I’d think this was a dream but I’ve barely slept this week.”

Mark’s hand stilled in the air as he lifted his cup, stomach too nauseous to even think of taking a sip.

“Tell me something about him.” Mrs Choi turned to Mark suddenly, her eyes gleaming with a fevered desperation. “Tell me a story about my boy. I know you have so many memories together.”

It had been so hard to think of Youngjae for the past week, almost unbearable; just the sound of his name made a pit in Mark’s heart ache. But, in a flash, like a movie playing before his eyes, a memory swam to the surface.

“Uh…” Mark cleared his throat. “When I was twelve and Youngjae was nine, [Pokémon Emerald](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pok%C3%A9mon_Emerald), it was this game we were both really into, was coming out. It was being released on a school day and we knew that if we went after school, the game would be sold out and we’d have to wait ages for the restock. So, we skipped class and went to the game store.”

Mrs Choi gasped playfully at the news of her son playing hooky and Mark snickered.

“Well, we’d finally got our copies of the game but, as we were leaving, we literally bumped into our principal who was buying a game for his daughter. He recognised our uniforms immediately and, I mean, we were kids, we had no idea what to do, so we just… ran.”

Mark couldn’t help but laugh when picturing that day; the two of them, dumb kids too excited over a video game to notice they’d been caught, and too cowardly to face the consequences.

“We didn’t know where we were going, we just knew we needed to get as far away as possible. Somehow, we ended up in Daehangno and we passed Old Man Cheon’s house, remember him? Had that huge German Shepard? God, all of us kids absolutely detested him, he was such a grouch.”

Mark shook his head humouredly; it felt like just yesterday he had been walking home from school past Old Man Cheon’s house with Jackson, the old man yelling at them for no reason other than he wanted to.

“He was sitting on his front step and had left his front gate open and that German Shepard came just… bounding out, it was the scariest moment of my life. It chased us all the way up the street and we ran like _hell._ Screaming our little hearts out. Youngjae even fell and scraped his knees, ripped his uniform and everything. ‘Course, he had to lie to you about how exactly that happened.”

“Oh!” Mrs Choi cried, clapping her hands together in recollection. “Oh yes, I think I remember that day! I knew you two had been up to no good… call it a mother’s intuition.”

Mark leaned back in the booth seat, letting the memory wash over him. “At least the game was worth it.”

Quiet settled over the two, both of their minds deep in the past, in memories that harshened the pain of the present. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last either, Mark wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t left for America. No if’s, he had chanted over and over in his head since his father, since Sammy, but the mantra was beginning to lose its effect. The possibilities were endless; only the universe knew what could’ve been if Mark had taken the leap instead of running for the hills.

“You gave him purpose, Don.”

Wrenched from his thoughts, Mark turned to Mrs Choi with a raised eyebrow in question.

“When you came back,” The older woman took an unsteady breath, “you brought him the chance he had been waiting his whole life for. To finally prove himself. He was always trying to prove himself.”

 _There had never been anything to prove_ , Mark wanted to say. _I always knew exactly the kind of man he was. There was nothing to prove._

But he just couldn’t find the words.

Mrs Choi huffed a breathy, wet laugh, eyes filling. “He kept wanting to make us proud when we were proud of him all along.”

“Mrs Choi…” Mark started but what was there to say? What could he say? Youngjae was her _son_.

“I’m so sorry, I truly… I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, sweetheart?” Mrs Choi questioned him, tilting his chin up to face her, to look her in the eyes. And yet, where he expected there to be contempt and bitterness at what Mark had brought upon their family, there was only acceptance.

“Youngjae made his decision.” Mrs Choi paused, clearly choked up. “Nothing, and no one, would’ve changed his mind. And he would make the same decision again in a heartbeat. If you can give him anything… give him that. He knew what he was getting into. But he still did it. For you.”

She was right, God, she was _so_ right, and yet, it still utterly destroyed Mark. He had never wanted people to give up anything for him, to sacrifice themselves for him, to _die_ for him. He knew exactly what his father would say to him right now: _that’s the lifestyle, kid._

Well, that excuse just didn’t fly with Mark anymore.

It was strange; the mother who had lost her son comforting him instead of the other way around. However, Mrs Choi had probably spent every day of her marriage wondering if her husband was going to walk through the front door at night. This wasn’t new to her. And that was the saddest part of all.

The hairs at the back of Mark’s neck stood to attention and he knew that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the crowds of people before his eyes landed on one familiar figure. In a sea of black suits, Jinyoung somehow still managed to stand out to Mark. Tilting his head, the younger indicated to a side room before walking away and disappearing behind the door.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Choi…” Mark stood from his seat, brushing down the lapels of his suit, “but I’m needed elsewhere. Can I get you anything?”

“Oh no, thank you, Don.” Mrs Choi smiled gratefully up at him, tugging a tissue out from her sleeve to dab at the few tears that had escaped down her cheeks. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer.”

Enfolding the older woman’s hands in his own, Mark stared at her resolutely. “You would never be an inconvenience, Mrs Choi. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

There was nothing he could do now, no possible way to fix what had happened, but if he could bring even the slightest sense of justice to the Chois, it would mean the world to Mark. He decided the people around him had suffered enough. It was time to put his foot down.

With a goodbye hug, he left the table and headed to the side room, nodding and smiling at the funeralgoers who greeted him. Shutting the door gently behind him, he turned to see Jinyoung standing in the window, watching the rain lash violently against the glass.

Mark couldn’t deny that he had always loved to admire Jinyoung in a suit; fabric hugging, accentuating, curving, flattering. Clothes caressed Jinyoung’s body almost lovingly, as if they were honoured to be worn by him. That seemed to be the universal feeling held by anyone or anything in Jinyoung’s life; just honoured to be in his presence. To stand in his light if only for a little while.

Staring at Jinyoung, silhouetted against the rain, one of his deepest, locked-away memories burst out of its box, shooting to the surface, demanding to be remembered. Early winter rain had forced Mark and Jinyoung to seek shelter under the awning of a closed book shop; the two sixteen-year olds hysterically giggling at their drenched hair and clothes. It was the middle of the night and the pair had wandered the streets of the city for hours, making their own entertainment because the only thing they needed to have fun was to be together.

Beneath the dimly-lit shop awning, Mark had watched a rain droplet run down Jinyoung’s nose and felt words surge up in his throat; _those_ words. Three words that would change everything, that could _ruin_ everything. He choked and gagged and forced the words down but they kept rising up, insisting on being heard. “I…”

Jinyoung turned at the sound of the older boy’s voice, his skin glistening with rainwater.

Mark swallowed, his throat an empty, barren desert. “I just…”

What was about to occur dawned on Jinyoung’s face and he shook his head, spraying Mark’s already damp face with water droplets. “Not now.”

Somehow, Mark’s stomach managed to plummet to the floor. He’d never considered the possibility that Jinyoung didn’t feel the same way about him. “Why not?”

“Not now.” Jinyoung repeated, taking Mark’s clammy hand in his own wet one, squeezing to reassure the older boy that he hadn’t done anything wrong. “But eventually.”

And, in some weird way, Mark had understood. He’d wanted to say the words but he was nowhere near ready for the consequences of saying them. And Jinyoung had known that before Mark had even realised it.

Jinyoung looked up at the waxing moon, the stars reflecting in his black, endless eyes. “I’ll wait.”

Lightening flashed across the sky, throwing Mark from his past and illuminating the now adult Jinyoung in the dimly lit room. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay.” The single word felt empty, echoing hollowly, absent of any value or substance. “I mean… I have to be, don’t I?”

Jinyoung stared him down, eyes hooded and indecipherable. “Not with me.”

Static in the air, crackling and charged, just like it always was when Mark was alone in a room with Jinyoung. He could feel the distance between them, count on his hands the number of steps it would take to fill it, allow himself to be reeled in by the rope Jinyoung had tied around him years ago. A ripple across the surface, a chill down his spine. He felt the urge to lick his lips and found his mouth suddenly dry.

He cleared his throat, cutting the tension like a knife.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

Jinyoung’s eyebrows creased together miserably. “The note that night… I shouldn’t have sent it to you.”

Mark recoiled in surprise; his mind had been so muddled for the past week that he had completely forgotten the reason he had gone to the families’ meeting in the first place.

“I’m the reason you showed up.” Jinyoung continued, the pitch of his voice rising in distress. “You could’ve been shot! And I told Youngjae to leave early, oh my God, Youngjae…”

“Youngjae was _not_ your fault.” Mark couldn’t stand the guilt practically dripping out of Jinyoung’s pores. Although, he couldn’t be so quick to criticise. He had barely been able to sleep all week, his brain screaming at him for not being able to save Youngjae, or stomach much food, gut twisting at the mere thought that he would never see his friend again.

One night, he’d dreamt he was back outside the hotel, Youngjae standing in front of him, white shirt bleeding crimson. Except, this time, there was no shooter. The gun was in his own hand.

Mark shook his head. “Someone didn’t want the details of that meeting to get back to me. It was going to happen whether I was there or not.”

Losing someone you love is the truest of agonies; that was a simple fact of life. However, losing someone you love because someone else took them from you, took them purposefully to hurt you… there was no comprehending, no fathoming, the torment that _you_ were the reason they were gone.

“Why did you send it in the first place?” Mark asked. “You weren’t even supposed to be there.”

The younger rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “My father demanded I come with him at the last minute. Once I got there, I knew Youngjae wasn’t going to get the whole truth.”

He frowned at Jinyoung, not sure exactly what he was getting at. Everything about him was grave, from his face to his demeanour. Even his tone of voice unnerved Mark.

"Especially not with who arranged the meeting.”

“Who?” Mark almost bit his tongue from how demanding he sounded. He just couldn’t afford to wait any longer. He’d already risked too much. “Who arranged it, Jinyoung?”

The younger’s sigh was so weary and resigned, too old for such a young soul. “Jaebum did. It was Jaebum.”

Shock like electric sparks blew through his veins. _But he… we had a meeting. And he said… he promised…_

Jinyoung rubbed at his eyes harshly, exhausted from giving Mark even more bad news. “He requested his father to arrange it on his behalf.”

“For what reason?” Mark wanted to pace back and forth, his skin itching, prickling, _crawling_ with the feeling of betrayal. “What did he want to meet about?”

“He announced that he had talked with you about a possible partnership and that…” Jinyoung shifted uncomfortably, “eventually… when this lifestyle became too much for you, you would realise the error of your ways and step down or, most likely, run again. And Jaebum would absorb all of your assets and properties to share amongst the three families.”

Mark couldn’t even laugh about it, he was too astonished. “That slimy bastard.”

What was genuine anymore? He had hosted Jaebum in his home, shared a drink with him, listened to him spin his spiel about new beginnings, ending bad blood. _We don’t need to share the top,_ Jaebum had told him. Maybe that was the only truthful thing he’d said.

“I trusted him.” The misjudgement made Mark’s teeth grind. “When he spoke to me, told me about starting a new era… I believed him. He hasn’t changed a bit, has he?”

Jinyoung shrugged his shoulders helplessly; he probably thought Mark was stupid to ever have believed Jaebum in the first place. The word naïve may as well have been written across his forehead in flashing lights. He’d never for a second assumed that coming home, becoming Don, was going to be easy; nothing about this entire lifestyle could be called easy. However, it was the Dons he had been warned about, not those he had once called friends.

“So… what are you going to do now?” Jinyoung broke through his musings, nibbling anxiously at his fingertip.

It was time to make his move, the chessboard stretched out before him, pieces ready to strike and conquer. Was his king exposed and vulnerable? Was his queen in a powerful enough position? Could he protect his pawns?

He’d always believed a game of chess was like going to war. You needed strategy, forethinking, a line of attack unbeknownst to your opponent. But he’d been at war since he’d returned home; he knew what war felt like. War was unpredictable, messy, chaotic and all about chance; nothing like the purity and clarity of a chess match. Chess was transparent, participants began on an even playing field. It was almost predictable. Mark was sick of being predictable.

He flipped the board and watched the pieces plummet to the ground.

“I’m going to arrange my own meeting.”

“Mark, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea anymore.” Jinyoung shook his head, face pinched, brow furrowed. “It’s too risky…”  

“No one is going to take me out in front of every family in the city.” Mark snorted, sensing that he was finally one step ahead. “They’ve manipulated everything from the shadows this far, I don’t think they’d risk all that to blow my brains out in front of every Mafiosi in Seoul.”

The younger man winced at the mental image before crossing the room swiftly and cupping Mark’s face in his hands.

“Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll kill you myself.”

Mark laughed. He could live with that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shutting the front door behind him, Mark noted the odd silence of the house. Mama was still at The White Hart; she had a close relationship with Mrs Choi and had been her rock throughout the past week, able to relate due to her own recent loss, and Liv was attending a sonogram appointment with her fiancé. Wherever the men who usually hung around the house were, Mark had no idea. It was the first time he had been well and truly alone in so long that he almost cried from relief.

It didn’t last very long as he heard footsteps coming up from the basement. The door next to him opened and Jackson appeared, his shirt sleeves rolled up and covered in dirt and… dried blood. Mark blanched, recoiling at the first sight of blood since that night in front of The Ivory hotel.

“Woah, woah.” Jackson held his hands up, trying to calm Mark down and give him space. “It’s all good, everything’s okay, it’s just me.”

“Where…” Mark choked out, unable to force any words out through his strangled throat. It was all coming back to him; the gunshot, the red asphalt, Youngjae in his arms and he couldn’t breathe, _he couldn’t breathe-_

“Mark!” Jackson called but his voice sounded so far away, like at the end of a long, dark tunnel. “You gotta breathe, brother, c’mon!”

How could a heart beat so fast? It was going to explode out of his chest and Mark clutched at his shirt, trying to hold it in, hold it all in before it burst out of him. The fabric of his shirt slipped out of his hands and, instead, he could feel skin, cold, _real_ skin and Jackson was lowering him to the floor why was he lowering him to the floor?

“Okay, that’s it… there we go, Mark, just sit down and breathe with me, just like that…” Jackson soothed, holding Mark’s hands in his own, tapping out a slow, rhythmic beat to follow. “In and out…”

Finally, his heart began to feel like it belonged in his chest, not like it wanted to escape out of his body, and Mark blew out the heaviest breath of his life. He was here and now, he was alive, he was going to be okay. Eventually, he would be okay.

“Why do you…” Mark began, inhaling greedily, filling his chest to the brim. “The blood…”

Jackson looked at the sleeves of his shirt before glancing fleetingly at the door down to the basement. “I can’t explain it to you. Not here. I need to show you. Downstairs.”

Mark took another deep breath before nodding. He needed to know what was going on in his own house, in the cavernous underbelly of his basement. Jackson lifted him to his feet carefully, watching for any signs that they hadn’t reached the other side of that panic attack, before reaching out and opening the basement door. The darkness swallowed up the staircase and Mark couldn’t see a thing. Jackson gripped his shoulder and squeezed, forever at his back, and Mark took a step forward, down into the pitch black.

Eventually, Mark could see the single bald bulb hanging in the middle of the room, a stark light in a room of shadow. Figures began to appear in the periphery of Mark’s vision; the men that he had noticed missing upstairs, they were all down here. Here for the show. Under the bulb, a man sat in a plain wooden chair, hands and legs tied up.

Mark stopped in his tracks, staring at the gagged man numbly. “You brought him here.”

“There was nowhere else to put him, Mark, not in the time we had.” Jackson explained, calm and still behind the older man. The sight was a lot to process and he knew Mark needed time to adjust to the situation. Men around the room were watching him, waiting for what his reaction would be. They all felt Youngjae’s loss. They all demanded justice, justice for their fallen family member. They entrusted _him_ to deliver it. Would they get a boy or a Don?

After an unnerving period of silence, Mark tilted his head to the side, watching the man in the chair distantly, as if he was almost detached from his body. “He say anything yet?”

Jackson sniffed derisively and spat on the floor at the feet of the tied-up man. “Not a fucking word. Shame… I was hoping to get a name before we had to break any bones.”

The man in the chair began to shake his bonds, screaming under his gag at Mark and Jackson, blood running down his face, chest and arms. It echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls, and Mark was surprised that he hadn’t heard the screaming from upstairs. His father must have made sure the basement was well padded and soundproof.

Back up the stairs, the basement door creaked open and, for a moment, Mark thought _oh my god, my mother is going to come downstairs and find me here with a tied-up bleeding man,_ but the footsteps were heavy and powerful, too weighty for his tiny mother.

Jackson smirked at the newcomer. “You’re late, jackass.”

“Yeah, well, I had to get my goodie bag.”

Mark turned back and watched Yugyeom grin, the edge of his mouth glinting like the tip of a knife. The younger man dropped a black duffle bag to the floor with a thump, unidentifiable objects clanging together inside.

Mark rolled his eyes; he didn’t have time for niceties, for jokes. He needed answers. “You gonna get on with it or what?”

“Yes, sir.” Yugyeom saluted extravagantly before kneeling down and zipping his bag open. Mark heard him rummage around in the bag, searching for what he wanted, and with a relished flick of his hand, the younger man produced a pack of cigarettes.

Mark stared at him blankly. “You’re fucking joking.”

“Hey! I like a smoke before I get dirty, helps me get calm and shit.” Yugyeom defended himself, flicking his lighter gracefully. Tossing the pack to Jackson who caught it with an indulgent grin, Yugyeom sauntered towards the man in the chair, dragging slowly on his cigarette. The smoke clouded the room, veiling the room in a tobacco fog.

Yugyeom nodded his head at the tied-up man. “What’s his name?”

“Woojin.” Jackson answered, illuminated by the match he struck to light his cigarette.

“Ah…” Yugyeom stopped in front of the tied-up man, leaning down on his knees with a patronising frown. “Well, Woojin, we seem to have found ourselves in quite the predicament.”

The single lightbulb revealed Yugyeom’s face and the chair shuddered under Woojin as he tried to move further away from the young man, eyes bulging and chest heaving at the sight of him. Sweat poured down his face and it was clear that he knew exactly who Yugyeom was and what he was renowned for.

“I do believe my friends have asked you to answer a question. Did you ask him a question?” Yugyeom checked, looking back at Mark and Jackson who both nodded. Woojin dragged his feet against the floor in an attempt to push his chair back, trying anything to get as far away from Yugyeom as possible.

“And did you answer their question?” Yugyeom asked Woojin, leaning his elbow on his thigh and resting his head upon his hand as if he was bored by the entire affair. Woojin just watched the other man, eyes cataloguing his every movement in terror.

Yugyeom sighed dramatically, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. Ash fell from the stick onto Woojin’s trousers and Yugyeom brushed it to the floor. At the slight touch, Woojin flinched violently, his arms tugging aggressively at their ties.

“Marlboro Red. A real kick-your-ass flavour, if I do say so myself. A high-quality smoke. Such a shame really… what a waste.” Yugyeom admired his cigarette, watching the ash shimmer under the light, and then shoved the butt into Woojin’s hand.

Agonised screaming pierced Mark’s ears; the kind of screaming that was sure to make your blood run cold. No one in the room moved or even flinched at the sound, still as statues as they observed the man’s suffering. Mark’s fingers twitched from what he thought was discomfort, even sympathy, at the man’s tortured wails but he realised with a start that it was, in fact, adrenalin. He should’ve been disturbed at himself, disgusted that he felt a rush with every scream, but Youngjae’s face appeared in his mind, as if he were standing right in front of him, and Mark came to peace with himself. Came to peace with the fact that some dark part of his heart wanted to revel in this man’s pain, enjoy every fucking second of it.

Throwing the burnt remains to the floor, Yugyeom brushed the ash from his hands, bothered by the inconvenience. “Now, you’ve ruined my favourite cigarette. We’re not getting off to the best start, are we?”

The red, leaking hole in Woojin’s hand glowed under the lightbulb, smoke still rising from his skin. His screams had reduced to piteous groans, adrenaline racking his body with shaky twitches.

“So,” Yugyeom continued, gesturing for someone to pass him his duffle bag, “I’m going to remove this gag and ask you a question again. I hope you’ll make the right decision and answer.”

Yugyeom removed the gag and smiled reassuringly at Woojin. “Now, tell me… who hired you to kill Choi Youngjae?”

The injured man watched him, gasping heavily through his mouth without speaking a word.

Yugyeom shook his head in disappointment before pushing his thumb into the burn wound. “I’m not sitting here for my health, Woojin. I’d like a name, please.” 

Woojin screeched, kicking out at Yugyeom feebly, before biting his lip closed so hard it began bleeding. He shook his head profusely as if he needed to tell himself, not the rest of the room, to keep his mouth shut.

Yugyeom rose from his crouch, taking his duffle bag from one of the men and dropping it atop a nearby table. “Y’know… I knew a wiseguy like you once. Had some trouble telling the truth, it’s an awful habit. My mother told me to always tell the truth, didn’t your mother? You seem like a mama’s boy so she must’ve told ya.”

Woojin watched Yugyeom warily as the young man searched through his duffle bag.

“Anyway, back to that wiseguy.” Yugyeom continued, considering a bone saw before shaking his head and throwing it back in the bag. “We had a conversation, me and him, quite like me and you right now, in fact! I was very polite to him, very polite indeed, and do you know what he said to me?”

Yugyeom stopped, waiting for an answer from Woojin, and Woojin continued to watch him silently.

“He called me a jumped-up son of a bitch.”

Just like that, like the crash of a tsunami wave, Yugyeom’s face changed, morphed into something new, something alien. That ripple, that swell of suppressed violence that Mark had seen in Yugyeom at his father’s wake, broke the surface and revealed itself. And it was fucking terrifying.

“Now I ain’t got no problem with calling names.” Yugyeom explained, his voice low and dangerous. “But calling my mother a bitch? I just can’t stand for that, as you can understand.”

Yugyeom’s arm stilled in the bag and he beamed victoriously. He’d found exactly what he was looking for.

“Now, I knew this wiseguy’s mother. Lovely woman, owned the local laundrette. Name was Mina.”

Pulling his hand out of his duffle bag, Yugyeom produced a sledgehammer, the metal head stained a crusted red. The air in the room dropped. Woojin began panting, short and desperate breaths, as Yugyeom rested the sledgehammer against his shoulder.

“So, I thought to myself,” Yugyeom resumed, tapping his fingers against the metal head, “if his mother heard him talking like that, she’d knock the living shit out of him. My mother would, if it was me.”

The sledgehammer glinted under the single lightbulb, winking at Mark.

Yugyeom patted the sledgehammer. “Know what I named this girl?”

Woojin’s Adam’s apple wobbled.

Yugyeom grinned. “I called her Mina. And I beat his fucking kneecaps in.”

Raising his arm into the air, Yugyeom brought down the sledgehammer onto Woojin’s knee with a _crack._

Mark reached over and took Jackson’s cigarette from him, puffing lazily as Woojin’s screams reverberated around the room. A concert of pain. Mark huffed a laugh.

“Now, you’re gonna give me a name,” Yugyeom hissed through his teeth, gripping Woojin’s hair between his fingers, “or I’m going to break your other fucking kneecap. A fair deal, no?”

“I wasn’t even supposed to shoot that fucking kid!” Woojin spat out, voice cracking hysterically. His eyes met Mark’s, feverish and almost delirious. “I was aiming at _you_!”

Mark stiffened, feeling every pair of eyes in the room land on him. A pulse of rage, low in his stomach, began thumping through his body, bleeding into his vision until he couldn’t see anything but the man in front of him and his fist. Before he knew it, Mark was across the room, raising his clenched hand. He punched Woojin across the face, blood splattering across the front of his shirt.

“You’re telling me Youngjae died for _nothing?!”_ Mark yelled, slamming his foot into Woojin’s broken kneecap.

Yugyeom stumbled backwards, momentarily stunned by Mark’s horrifying outburst, and Jackson stepped forward, ready to intervene.

“I buried my best friend!” Mark screamed, pounding Woojin over and over, watching his knuckles split and bleed, mixing with Woojin’s blood until he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “I watched his fucking coffin go in the ground because of _you_!”

“Okay, Mark, that’s enough!” Jackson stepped in, physically restraining the older man before he knocked Woojin unconscious. “He got the message.”

“No, I don’t think he did.” Yugyeom murmured, reaching into his bag, removing a 9mm pistol.

“Wait, wait!” Woojin screeched, rocking his chair intensely. A trail of blood flowed from his nose down to his chin.

Jackson raised his arms in harmless surrender, approaching Yugyeom slowly and warily like a keeper would circle an angered lion. "Now, Yugyeom… think for a minute. C'mon kid, do you really wanna do this?" 

Raising the gun, Yugyeom loaded a magazine. "I'm not a kid anymore."

Bullet racked, he took aim.

"And Youngjae was my _friend_." 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Three o’clock chimed from the grandfather clock in the hallway and Mark was still wide awake. Closing his eyes wasn’t an option; Woojin’s white, lifeless face and Youngjae lying in the street played like alternating horror movies against his eyelids. An empty mug sat on the counter next to his bed. Mama’s homemade insomnia remedy; a warm cup of milk. That hadn’t worked either and Mark had accepted the sleepless night, watching the moon rise through the bedroom window.

A thought occurred to him. Maybe he could be productive instead of wasting hours away in a bed he wouldn’t sleep in and start planning for the family meeting he would be holding. He needed to be fully prepared for any scenario; anything was possible with the Four Families. He had some contracts with the Chinese to go over as well and the image of the piled-up documents pushed him out of bed.

The staircase creaked under Mark’s feet as he descended, squeaking in the midnight hush shrouded over the house. A lone lamp shone softly in the living room and one of the Mark’s favourite guards, Jun, rested in an armchair. He looked over and nodded at Mark, still on duty until the morning shift change. He deliberated making a cup of coffee for his work but knew the last thing he needed to be right now was wired with caffeine.

Warm, subdued light emanated from the crack in the office door and Mark wondered whether he had left one of the lamps on when a shadow flickered across the wall. No guard was allowed in the office, his mother definitely would not be in there and he knew Jackson was fast asleep.

There was a Glock, hidden deep in Jackson’s suit jacket pocket hanging up on the rack next to the door. Creeping across the corridor, Mark held his breath, begging the floorboards to help him in his silent campaign. He reached inside the pocket, feeling around for the familiar cold touch of the gun frame, and gripped the firearm in his hand tightly. Safety off, barrel loaded.

Mark knew the door would creak open and he would only have a short space of time to get the one-up on his intruder. He waited breathlessly at the door, hand sweating against the Glock, before kicking the door open and levelling the gun.

“You have five seconds to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

A small, tubby man spun around from the file cabinets in surprise.

Mark dropped the gun. “Uncle Tony?!”

“Mark!” Tony wheezed, clutching at his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The older man stared at Mark in disbelief, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses. “God… you look like Rich. It’s like looking at a ghost.”

Mark rushed at Tony, wrapping the smaller man in a firm hug. “Where the hell have you been?! What are you doing here?”

The weeks since Mark’s father’s death had not been kind on Tony; his greying hair was dirty with grease, wrinkles creased his face and he smelt like he hadn’t showered since he had disappeared. His shrewd eyes never rested on one object, constantly scanning the room for possible threats and exits. Running had left him drained and hiding had left him paranoid.

“Look, I haven’t got much time and there’s a lot you need to know.” Tony began, patting Mark on the back before resuming his frantic search through the office.

“Before the crash, your father told me he thought someone was watching him. Following his movements.” Tony threw files across the room, papers fluttering to the floor. “I didn’t believe him until one night, someone broke into the office and went through the files. Turned this place upside down as if they’d been looking for something.”

Mark could barely keep up with the old man, struggling to digest the new information about his father. When Mark had arrived home and found his father’s filing system in the state it had been in, it had been almost impossible to comprehend why Mark’s father would have left it in such disarray. Now Mark knew that it had been left that way by an intruder, his father’s murderer. He’d always known Richard Tuan was renowned for his perceptiveness and acute ability to predict danger in advance, therefore, it came as no surprise to Mark that his father had picked up on suspicious activity.

“That night,” Tony paused, eyes glazed over from a memory he did not enjoy remembering, “your father told me someone was going to kill him.”

“My god…” Mark fell into one of the leather chairs, head in his hands. “He knew?”

The thought of his father having to look over his shoulder, count down the days until his killer finally made their move, brought shivers down Mark’s spine. Why hadn’t his father told him anything? He could’ve come home, protected him, done _something_. Instead, his father had kept it all inside, refusing to worry his family and shouldering the burden of knowing his life had a closer deadline than he’d expected.

Looking away from the files for a moment, Tony nodded fleetingly, before focusing back on his search. “He told me to leave. Go all the way underground and not talk to anyone, not even to Dabin. Two days later… he was gone.”

“So why are you back?” Mark questioned the older man, rising up from his chair anxiously. “You could be in danger, Ton!”

“Have you found it?” Tony demanded, eyes probing into Mark’s.

Mark stared back at him in puzzlement. “Found what?”

“Then you haven’t.” Tony concluded and he moved to the large wooden desk, the Don’s desk. Running his hands over the sides of the drawers, it seemed as if the older man was trying to find something in the desk. “I had to come back, make sure you found it… aha!”

With a clicking noise, a hidden side-compartment opened in the right column of the desk and Tony removed a manila envelope. Mark’s eyes bulged; _there’d been a hidden compartment in my father’s desk this entire time?_

The older man handed the envelope over to Mark and Mark looked down, stilling at the sight of his name written in black marker.

Written in his father’s handwriting.

“He made me promise that if he wasn’t here anymore, that I was to get this to you.” Tony confessed, squeezing Mark’s hands supportively over the manila envelope. “Only you. No one else can see what’s inside.”

Mark’s eyes watered as he stroked his fingers over his father’s handwriting. “Ton…”

Tony pulled Mark into another hug, earnestly contrite. “I should’ve been here. To guide you, to help you through this. Forgive me.”

Incapable of speaking over the aching lump in his throat, Mark merely nodded. For weeks, he had cursed Tony for walking out on his family when they had needed him most. However, Mark finally understood why Tony was given no choice but to run. The secrets he knew, the information he had been privy to during his time as the Tuan Consigliere; in the wrong hands, it could bring his family to ruin. By disappearing, Tony had been protecting Mark and his family all this time, forever loyal to the Tuan name.  

The older man looked around the office he had worked in for nearly half a century for the last time. “Just… do him proud. Your father. This, all of this that he made… it was all for you, Mark. Don’t let him down.”

 _That’s easy,_ Mark thought. _The hard part is getting justice for him._

“And tell Dabin…” Tony sniffed and Mark swore he could hear the old man’s heart break just a little. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

A floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs, most likely from a breeze, but Tony stiffened, heeding any other movement, before springing into action. He gathered up a handful of folders, rushed to the door, looking back at Mark one last time with a wry grin, and disappeared into the black of the house.

The room was silent once more and Mark remained in the middle of the room, staring at the envelope in his hands. He had searched this entire office for weeks on end, hours wasted away with Jackson rifling through the entire filing system in hope of _something,_ anything that could help him, that could open his eyes. All this time, what he had needed had been right under his nose, hidden beneath his fingers atop the desk, waiting for him.

Was he even ready to read what was inside? His hands shook with expectation; expectation that could very well end in disappointment. He couldn’t even remember the last word he had spoken to his father, the last conversation they’d had. Over time, the memory had disintegrated, leaving Mark with nothing but meaningless fragments. This envelope, whatever was inside, would be the last thing his father would ever say to him.

Ripping open the seal, Mark reached in and took out several sheets of paper, the first clearly addressed to him. Swallowing deeply, Mark read his father’s last letter.

_Mark,_

_I am afraid that if this envelope has reached you, I am no longer here. It is a shame that I will never be able to tell you this in person, however, I still mean every word whether spoken or in writing._

_If you are reading this, you clearly have returned home. I knew this would come to pass; you are a not a son that would sit by and let your mother struggle. Do not let her further into this world than is necessary. We must protect her together now._

_It has been difficult for you, I know. This has not been your world for some time now and it would not have been your free decision to return to it. However, we all must meet our destinies at some point. I have met mine and now you must meet yours. Deep in your heart, you know this to be true. Try not to fight it any longer, son; you must now pick your battles wisely. They say the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. My sins are heavy, Mark; you must shoulder the burden._

_You are an intelligent boy. I am certain you know by now that my death was no mere accident. For some time, I have been aware of the fact that I am being watched. Hence, I have begun to withdraw from the family business as much as I can. I refuse to put everything I have built at risk, as I’m sure you can understand. I will not play into my shadow’s hands._

_Enclosed with this letter is information I have gathered on every aspect of the three families over the weeks before my death. Their rankings, their hierarchies, their businesses and international connections, the cops they have on their books, to name but a few. In particular, their grudges against me and the family name. This information should assist you in re-establishing the family. Furthermore, I hope that, with the help of this material, you will be able to ascertain who arranged my murder. I, unfortunately, ran out of time before I could find out._

_You’ll be arranging a meeting of the Four Families soon, I’m sure. Don Park has made moves against me in the past and pulled that stunt with the cops against you so there is no need for me to warn you of his motivations. Don Kim is harmless; he doesn’t have the meat to go up against me and he certainly won’t have it to go up against you. Watch Don Im; the slimy bastard has been slithering around, talking about ‘partnerships’. It’s bullshit. Don’t sign a goddamn thing with the Ims._

_And do one more thing for me, son. Get rid of that fucking club._

_Someone will try to set up a later meeting with you at the family gathering, someone you trust to guarantee your safety. At that meeting, you’ll be assassinated._

_There’s a rat, Mark. There may be multiple rats, I’m not even sure anymore. Too many holes in this sinking ship. Don’t be careless; careless will get you killed. You will lose friends, loved ones. I’m afraid that pain will never really go away._

_I wish we had more time. Time for me to tell you why my parents named me Richard, my father’s shop in Long Beach, our tiny house in Songpa, eating dumplings with Don Moon, your mother and I’s first date, every choice I’ve ever made that has led to the man I am today. The decisions that made Don Tuan. But I’m running out of lines._

_Look after Mama. Look after Liv and my first grandchild. Make a name for yourself but always remember that, first and foremost, you are a Tuan._

_I love you. I’m sorry._

_Papa._

It was all there, like his father promised. Somehow, Richard Tuan had managed to infiltrate the three other crime families of Seoul. The information was so precious, so invaluable, that Mark clutched it to his chest, letting the material sink into his bones. He had enough blackmail material in his hands to bring down the three Dons combined. Enough material to ensure that the Tuan name would never falter again.

Even with ten years apart, his father had still been able to read Mark’s mind, predict his decisions. He’d known that Mark would come home, known Mark would discover the truth behind his death, known Mark would be planning a meeting of the families. It gave Mark an eerily comforting feeling, like his father had been sitting with him in this office since Mark had returned home, watching him work with approval.

 _“One day, Papa will ask you to keep his secrets.”_ Mama had told him years and years ago, when he had been just a naïve little boy. Now, that day had come. He held his father’s secrets in the palms of his hands. And they were now his secrets too.

Mark fell back into the red leather chair, tears streaming down his face. Something close to closure settled in his heart; he knew his father was proud of him and had done everything in his power to ensure that Mark would succeed. There had been no resentment, no bitter grudge that remained. He’d known that Mark would return home one day and had prepared exhaustively for that day.

Moonlight spilled over the letter and Mark stroked the words with an aching, but accepted, grief. He had never really been alone; all the moments he had thought of giving up, all the times he’d believed he would never be good enough to salvage the family business, that letter had waited for him, knowing the exact moment he would need it. The scent of tobacco and whiskey filled the room. His father would always be here.

Hours passed by as Mark poured over the package of documents until the sun peaked over the horizon, dipping the room into a glowing dawn light. Birds chirped in the nearby pine tree and Mark let himself enjoy the peace for once. The day would come and he would be ready but, for now, he would relish in the singing of the birds and the rising of the sun.

A knock at the door resounded. “Sir?” 

“Come in.” Mark called, hastily throwing the documents together and tucking them into a right drawer, hidden deep under stacks of contracts, before writing innocuously in his diary book.

One of the younger family men, Hyuntae, entered the room, holding a folded sheet of paper in his hand. “That account number you wanted us to look into, boss…”

Mark’s head shot up from his writing.

Hyuntae lifted the paper into the air. “We got a name.”

“Has anyone looked at this piece of paper?” Mark demanded, marching across the room and snatching the document from Hyuntae’s hand.

Hyuntae stepped back slightly, alarmed at Mark’s fervour. “No one, sir, that was the order.”

Mark looked down at the sheet of paper. There it was. Finally. After all of this time, the one name he needed was shaking in his hand like a leaf in the wind.

“Get out.” Mark ordered and, within a second, Hyuntae disappeared, the door clicking gently shut behind him.

Mark crossed the room and fell back into his chair, holding the paper out in front of him like it was going to catch fire at any moment.

He never thought this day would come. In truth, Mark had feared that he would go to his grave never knowing the name of his father’s murderer. But he had been prepared to work every day of his life to find out.

Everything was going to change once he unravelled this paper. _Everything._ There would be no going back. Once he knew, he had to act.

_For you, Papa._

Mark opened the paper.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH CLIFFHANGER IM SORRY you'll have to wait 1 more chapter to find out! so, for the last time before the reveal... who do you think it is? and this time, i'll give you a little help. look back all the way to chapter 1 as there were THREE hints at who the murderer is. in fact, there are hints in every chapter if you just look close enough heheheh but that's all i'll say until the final chapter next week!
> 
> until then! thank you for reading!


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello for the last time here :( I cant believe it's the last chapter! an extra long chapter as well bc you deserve it heheheh what a ride with you guys! thank you for coming here every week over the past 7 weeks, I truly hope you've enjoyed this story and this ending fulfils everything that has been leading up to it. i haven't replied to any comments this week bc i didn't want to potentially spoil the ending for anyone! there's a lot of influences from the godfather in this chapter, particularly towards the end, i hope you like it :-) please leave your thoughts in the comments, i'd love to hear them and, for the last time here with Omertà, enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> chapter warning - descriptions of violence

 

 

_"You have been brought here today to join the Tuan family.”_

The room was crowded, both with official members and new initiates. They had been driven to a country house far from the city, far from civilisation and possible prying eyes. Mark’s eighteen-year-old-self had tried to absorb as much detail as possible; the poplar trees lining the gravel drive, the eccentric wallpaper, the scuffed brown carpet of the reception area and the large tapestry covering an entire wall in the drawing room.

Glancing to his right, Mark locked eyes with Jackson and the younger winked at him cheekily. He didn’t show any signs of reservation; his certainty in taking his rites was resolute. Mark, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop his hands from shaking. He was here for his father and would never want to embarrass him in front of his men but he just still… wasn’t sure. Was the family business really for him?

Tony entered the drawing room from a side door and laid out two objects atop the great wooden table in the middle of the room; a 38mm pistol and a dagger.

“This is your baptism.” Tony announced to the inductees, his eyes shrewd and watchful through his tortoiseshell glasses. “You were baptised as a baby into the world, by your parents. Now _we_ baptise you into this new world.”

“You’ve been told the rules.” Tony continued, laying out cards of saints upon the table. “To break these rules is to sign your death sentence.”

Several initiates gulped, realising the severity of what they were signing up for. Mark sneaked a glance at Jackson again; his friend looked almost electrified by the entire affair.

Reaching into his pocket, Tony produced a slim, sharp sewing pin. With a start, Mark realised that he was the first initiate in line; he would be first to take his vows. Tony stepped forward and wrapped one hand around Mark’s wrist, raising it for the whole room to see. In a sudden movement, Tony pricked Mark’s index finger and a bubble of blood rose to the surface.

“This drop of blood symbolizes your birth into our family. We are one until death. One family. You live by the gun and the knife and you die by the gun and the knife.”

Mark heard the side door open again and the room temperature seemed to drop immediately. Looking up from his bleeding finger, Mark watched a group of men part down the middle to let his father walk in. A frightened awe fell over the initiates; the Don never attended an Omertà ceremony. Don Richard Tuan stood silently at the front of the room, observing the proceedings with cool interest.

Taking a card of Saint Peter, Tony pressed Mark’s bleeding finger into the material. Mark looked down at the blood-smudged face of the holy man and wondered faintly if he had just committed blasphemy.

The older man took a lighter out of his pocket and set the image of Saint Peter alight, burnt paper fluttering to the floor. “If you betray Cosa Nostra, your flesh will burn like this saint.”

Mark repeated back the oath he had practiced over and over in the dead of night. “As burns this saint, so will burn my soul. I enter alive and I will have to get out dead.”

All the way in. No way out.

“Do you swear your life to this family?”

Mark looked to his father one last time, looked to see if he could get any reaction from him. Don Tuan watched him silently, expressionless.

Mark nodded. “I swear.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He had chosen The Ivory hotel as the location to hold his family meeting. Returning to that street, seeing that asphalt road again, clean and spotless as if Youngjae had never lain there bleeding, had torn at Mark’s heart. The plan had been to never return here again, especially not this soon. But he knew that holding his meeting at the same venue the three families had held _their_ meeting without him would send a clear message: _I know what you did and I won’t stand for it any longer._

The Ivory really was unlike any hotel Mark had ever seen; sweeping, gold-encrusted staircases, sparkling chandeliers dripping overhead, exotic plants and marble columns. Saturated in wealth, there was not a square inch of the entire building that wasn’t designed to the highest extravagance.

The manager, a skinny and nervous whippet of a man, greeted Mark at the front doors. “Good afternoon, Don Tuan. It is an honour to host you at our hotel. Would you care to follow me to the conference room?”

Although hotel employees tried earnestly to act nonchalant and continue their jobs calmly, Mark felt their stares burning into him. Clearly, news that Don Tuan was holding a meeting had spread throughout the hotel personnel and a mix of excitement and fear charged the air. Mark hoped they weren’t expecting some spectacular movie-style shootout; he wasn’t that kind of guy. However, he definitely was not afraid to act anymore. If the trigger had to be pulled then so be it.

The conference room was empty when Mark and his men entered, vintage French chairs waiting to be filled. Sounds of employees running and calling to one another echoed from the hallway; the other families had arrived. With a sigh, Mark grabbed a glass of champagne from the table and downed half of its contents.

He had spent nights working on preparation for this meeting; hours of groundwork and research, he’d poured over his father’s documents last night to craft a game plan. There was no room for messing up, no room for weakness. If he didn’t prove himself as a key player now, he never would.

The conference doors swung open and the weedy manager, flanked by several hotel staff, led three large groups of suited men into the room. Although they were shielded heavily by guards, Mark could spot the three Dons amongst the crowd. His jaw tightened at the sight of them; they had no idea what was in store.

It wouldn’t be long before Mark would be approached. His father’s words in his letter were burned in his mind.

_Someone will try to set up a later meeting with you at that family gathering, someone you trust to guarantee your safety. At that meeting, you’ll be assassinated._

The rat was in the room. Mark could sense their presence even before their eyes met, his skin crawling at how close they were to him, knowing what they had done to his family. How could they face him? What kind of gall did a person have to look the son of the man they had murdered in the face?

Mark felt for the sheet of paper in his pocket, the paper that had told him everything he’d needed to know; one single name. The name of his father’s killer.

They were in the room.

Reaching into his pocket, Mark’s nails dug into the piece of paper, ripping into the truth he was terrified to face. Men continued to converse around him, oblivious to the storm within Mark’s chest, to his world tilting on its axis.

A hand tapped on his shoulder from behind.

It was time.

“Mark, I want to discuss a potential meeting with you.”

_I swore that I would face you. That I would look you in the face and smile. That I would shake your fucking hand. And I sat, and I waited, and now, I have you. Now, I finally strike._

He turned around.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Standing in front of the office window, Mark could see his mother’s lilacs swaying violently in the rainswept wind, could almost smell them through the glass. That memory, playing amongst his mother’s flowers whilst his father had watched on silently, floated into his periphery again. He let the memory linger for longer than was probably healthy, savouring every second of it. What he’d give to go back to that moment, even if for just a second. Maybe he could garden with his mother sometime this week, when the weather eventually cleared up; feel the soil against his skin, plant new life instead of being the reason for life being taken.

“Morning, brother.”

He still had the piece of paper crumpled up in his hand, wrinkled and ripped. He tried loosening his hand, releasing the slip of paper, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t let it go.

Jackson closed the door behind him, treading softly over to a leather chair in his slippers. “You stay awake all night again? The meeting is today, Mark, you need to make sure you’re well-rested.”

“Uncle Tony was here last night.” Mark disclosed, ignoring Jackson’s typical brotherly fretting. He didn’t have time for sleep; he couldn’t shut his mind off long enough. There was so much to do, so many moves he had to make… now that he knew…

Mark heard Jackson sit up abruptly in his seat, the material of his pyjamas scuffing against the leather seat. “What?! What did he say?”

Rain lashed against the window and Mark closed his eyes. “He gave me an envelope from my father meant for me. There was a letter from him, written just before his death… he knew someone was going to kill him.”

“Jesus Christ…” Jackson exhaled, slumping back in his chair. “We’ve gotta find this bastard.”

Mark’s hand itched against the piece of paper in his pocket. “Y’know, I thought I had been smart about this. I surrounded myself with people I trusted, kept everything close to my chest. I tried to be so careful.”

Jackson listened to him mutely, unsure of exactly what Mark was trying to say but not wanting to interrupt him.

 _“I will not play into my shadow’s hands.”_ Mark murmured, pulling out the sheet of paper from his pocket and gripping it brutally. “My father’s shadow followed me… it’s always been following me…”

“Mark…” Jackson finally interrupted, growing concerned with Mark’s vagueness. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

“They found the name.” Mark answered, holding the paper in the air, the Holy Grail they had been searching for.

Jackson stared at the slip of paper before grinning victoriously. “We did it, brother. We’ve got them!”

There was no rejoicing, no celebration. Mark continued to stand in front of the window, his back to Jackson, as he watched Mama’s lilies.

“It’s time to make our move.” Jackson continued, already devising multiple plans in his head. “If it’s one of the families, we’ll need to decide to strike before or after the meeting. Give me the name, Mark.”

The name. _The name_. Mark swore he could hear the screeching of car brakes, the deafening crash of metal against metal.

He couldn’t do this _he couldn’t do this-_

“Mark, give me the name.”

“It was _your father!”_

Mark spun from the window and faced the room, faced Jackson. His brother stared back at him, stunned speechless, before huffing an incredulous laugh.

“That’s real funny. You feeling like a joker today, huh? C’mon, tell me the name.”

There was no reply, no punchline to the joke. Only the aftermath, like sitting amongst the rubble of a bombsite.

“No…” Jackson shook his head, convulsing involuntarily in his chair. “No, you… there’s got to be some mistake, he…”

“The account number is his.” Mark hissed, finally releasing the paper from his hold and throwing it across the desk. “The hit on me at my father’s wake, Seungwon’s payment, Gwangjin district, the payment to the shooter… it’s all been coming and going to him.”

Flipping the sheet of paper over, Jackson’s eyes scanned the bank account details before looking up at his friend in wordless horror. It was all there, in black and white.

“I told him that Seungwon had spoken to me.” Mark paced back and forth, chest heaving, feeling the familiar rise in his throat, the gagging sensation to vomit. “I told him about _Youngjae_ oh my god he said he would _protect him.”_

Jackson watched him from his chair, face bleached of colour, his entire body racked with shivers.

Mark turned on him. “So what was it, huh? You were his lil insider? Playing the part of my consigliere whilst feeding information back to him?”

“No, no,” Jackson sprung to action, vehemently denying Mark’s accusations. “I would never, you know that, Mark!”

“I don’t know _anything_ anymore!” Mark yelled, forgetting about all of those still sleeping in the house, forgetting about anything but the blind red rage that overcame him. “You brought him _into my home!”_

Jackson had no words, gaping open-mouthed at Mark, for once, completely inarticulate. He couldn’t think of the right thing to say this time because there was no right thing to say. The damage was done.

“Listen to me, there has to be some explanation for this.” Jackson begged, rising from his chair and reaching across the desk to Mark, reaching out to the unreachable. It was like they were an ocean apart again.

“I don’t want to hear explanations.” Mark spat, practically frothing at the mouth with fury. “I made an oath to you. I _swore_ that when I found out who had my father murdered—”

“Please, Mark, please!” The younger howled over Mark, desperate to block out what he knew to be true, what he knew was going to happen. He couldn’t prevent it. His begs were falling on deaf ears. “I made an oath to this family!”

“ _He is_ your family!” Mark screamed, his voice almost hoarse. After his father’s death, he never thought it was possible for his heart to break again. And yet here he was, once more being proven wrong by the universe.

Drained of energy, of life, Mark collapsed against the red leather chair, letting it hold him upright. “Get out.”

“Mark, please,” Jackson beseeched, reaching out to Mark who flinched from him. “I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t.”

“I know but I need you to get out.” Mark murmured, too exhausted to fight anymore. He needed to save his energy, like his father had said. _You must now pick your battles wisely._

Jackson refused to move, fixed in place in front of the desk, and Mark couldn’t look at the tears running down his brother’s face anymore. “I said _get the fuck out!”_

All of the noise in the house died. The younger flinched away from Mark, stumbling over the foot of the brown leather chair, and reached out behind him to grip the doorknob, needing something to keep him steady. Mark turned back to the window and kept his back straight; a Don never breaks down in front of anyone.

He heard the door open and closed his eyes, willing Jackson to just leave, willing the nightmare to be over.

The room was deathly silent before Jackson spoke, his voice but a whisper. “I love you, brother.”

The door closed and Mark broke.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Of course, Mr Wang.”

Mark faced Vincent Wang, his father’s underboss and murderer, and smiled pleasantly. Thankfully, he’d ensured that his hands were hidden within his pockets; the trembling would have been a dead giveaway. 

“I’ve heard whispers of a possible attack on you soon.” Vincent revealed, keeping his voice to a private hush. “I’d like you to meet with some associates of mine to arrange security measures. For your safety. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

 _I’m sure you would,_ Mark seethed internally. It took everything within him not to lunge at the bastard, choke him senseless until his face turned blue.

Breathing in deeply, Mark nodded his head, attempting to seem grateful. “I appreciate that, Mr Wang. We can arrange details at a later time.”

The older man bowed his head before looking around the room in perplexity. “Have you seen my son today?”

“He’s running late.” Mark managed to choke out, trying his very best not to glare at the older man.

Vincent accepted the excuse, stepping back into his crowd of men and moving away to talk with a group of family members. Mark really should have seen it; the absence of referring to Mark by his title of Don, greeting him with no kiss upon his hand, calling him ‘kid’. They were all subtle ways that Vincent had disrespected him, had refused to accept Mark’s position in the family. It was all so clear now, like a cloudless sky after a thunderstorm.

He couldn’t dwell on this issue any longer, not when the heads of the three other families were in the room, waiting for him to begin the proceedings. He had a job to do; his grievances would have to wait.

Mark extended his arms to the three Dons in a show of welcome. “Gentlemen, if you would kindly take your seats, I’d like to begin the meeting.”

The Four Dons seated themselves; Mark at the top end, Don Kim to his left, Don Park to his right and Don Im directly opposite him at the bottom end of the table. The consiglieres took their seats to the left of their Dons and Mark couldn’t help but notice Jackson’s absence. If there was one thing he knew about Jackson, it was that the younger man hated impunctuality. The thought that Jackson did not want to attend, did not want to represent Mark and the Tuan family any longer, wounded Mark deeply. No matter what had happened that morning, Jackson had sworn an oath and he was not the kind to take oaths lightly.

Finally, to the right side of the Dons, were the first sons’ seats. The three stepped forward; Yugyeom, Jaebum and Jinyoung, taking their seats next to their fathers. Yugyeom’s eyes nervously scanned the room, sensing the tension, before catching Mark’s eyes and grinning supportively. Jaebum watched Mark openly, unruffled by being caught staring, and Mark detected that there was more underneath the placid, detached exterior; he saw anger, raw and poisonous, directed wholly at Mark. Lastly, Jinyoung refused to make eye contact with the room, keeping his eyes low and facing his lap. There was a fragility to him, a brittleness that seemed to be at almost breaking point. Mark didn’t miss the stiches on his forehead, the black eye or the wrist brace. Instead, he absorbed the fury, utilising it for what he was about to do.

Mark decided he could wait no longer to begin when the heavy conference doors groaned open. Looking over his shoulder, he watched in surprise as Jackson strode in, composed and professional, and took his seat next to Mark, notebook at the ready. For a second, Mark wanted to speak to him, to reassure him that, somehow, they would be okay, they could fix things, but he’d ran out of time. The three Dons were waiting for him.

“I called this meeting today,” Mark began, voice booming in the large, echoey room, “because I felt I was due _my_ say at the table.”

The dig at his lack of invitation to the previous family meeting was clearly heard by all; Don Kim grimaced, Don Im gave a cool nod and Don Park merely smirked brutishly.

“It has come to my attention that many of you feel I will not be a permanent fixture in Cosa Nostra. That I am only temporary.” Mark continued, glancing intentionally at Jaebum who remained expressionless. “Therefore, I am here to assure you that I am not going anywhere. I have unofficially assumed the position of Don of the Tuan family and, as soon as my confirmation is completed, I intend to fulfil that position until my death.”

He thought of the mystery assassin, the tombstone in his nightmare, the bullet meant for him outside of The Ivory hotel and had to laugh at how the hell he’d made it so far. Escaping death had seem to become a skill he was quite proficient at.

“Furthermore, I would request that the other Dons show me the same respect I have afforded them. As I understand, disrespect is not taken lightly in this world, therefore, I will not tolerate an affront to my position.”

Don Park accepted the jab graciously, the edges of his mouth tilted up in the ghost of a smile, before delivering a jab of his own. “We will consider your request.”

Mark ground his teeth together; he was done playing nice. Time to bring out the big guns.

“I thank you for your courteousness, Don Park, however, it would be wise of you to cease with your slights. After all, you have been attempting for weeks to undermine me and my businesses in several districts and bargain with the police chief to re-open an old case against me.”

Don Park stilled, eyes bulging at Mark’s knowledge of confidential Park family information. “How did you—”

“And Don Kim,” Mark continued, snubbing Don Park’s questioning, “I suggest you hire an accountant. Your habit of hooker-collecting will have you bankrupt in months, I suspect.”

The Don’s mouth dropped open, astonished at how his shady dealings had managed to make it back to Mark. Yugyeom rolled his eyes at his pig of a father, ashamed to even be sitting with him. Mark met Don Im’s eyes and the old man glowered; he’d already deduced what salacious, career-ending information Mark was privy to within his family.

 _“I am inside.”_ Mark seethed and the temperature in the room plummeted. He was finished with politeness and proper etiquette. He just wanted to watch them squirm. “I am everywhere. Every face you look at in your family could be mine. There’s nothing I don’t know.”

“You insolent little shit.” Don Park hissed, slamming his fist atop the table. Beside him, Jinyoung almost flinched out of his seat. Don Park’s consigliere attempted to resolve the situation, sputtering helplessly with apologies and defences and Mark cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“That is the last time I allow you to insult me, Don Park.” Mark warned, low and threatening. He glared the older Don into submission before continuing.

“There will be no agreements, no deals, no ‘partnerships’.” Mark spat and Jaebum bared his teeth, daring Mark to try him. “We have given you enough. No more. We’ve never needed your help and we never will. You’re on your own.”

Don Im watched the younger man, scrutinised him in every way possible, before barking a harsh laugh. “You forget your place, little boy.”

“I know my place.” Mark answered evenly, disregarding the Don’s insult as a defence mechanism of a desperate man struggling to stay above water. “I am a Tuan. Unfortunately for all of you, my father will never be gone. He will continue to live through me, my son, and every son that comes after him. He will haunt you for the rest of your lives.”

The three Dons gaped at him, finally seeing Mark for who he was. The time for games was over; the young Don was out for blood and had every tool possible to get it.

Mark grinned. “Any questions?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Leaving the hotel, Mark felt a hand tug at his arm viciously, pulling him backwards.

“What the _hell_ was that back there?” Jaebum fumed, panting heavily from chasing Mark through the reception.

Mark shrugged Jaebum’s hand from his arm. “ _That_ was me taking what is rightfully mine. I am Don now and I expect to be treated as such so don’t ever presume to put your hands on me again.”

“We could have built something.” Jaebum seethed, trying to make Mark see sense. “Something together, to be proud of.”

“What, and then this lifestyle would become too much for me and I’d run?” Mark accused, using Jaebum’s own words against him. “Leaving you to absorb all the assets to share with the others?”

Jaebum sighed heavily; he’d been caught red-handed.

Mark smirked derisively. “I told you I’m everywhere. I know exactly what you were planning, JB.”

The younger man recoiled at the timeworn nickname. He hadn’t been JB since high school, the last freedom he’d ever had before family life. It burned to be reminded of a time when family ties hadn’t mattered; when their friendship had come first.

“When I’m Don…” Jaebum began but Mark cut him off, tired of the puffed-up egotism.

“When you’re Don, I suggest you be _very_ careful about the decisions you make. I’m letting this go on account of our previous friendship but you do _not_ want to go to war with me, Jaebum.”

“You’re making a _huge_ mistake.” Jaebum bit out; he’d never had a deal go this sour. He’d probably never hear the end of it from his father.

Mark rolled his eyes at the older man; he didn’t know why he’d thought Jaebum would’ve matured with age. The guy could still be as immature as a child.

The Escalade pulled up to the kerb and Mark turned from Jaebum, heading for the car door opened for him by one of his men.

“Youngjae was _your fault.”_

The accusation punched him in the chest, leaving him winded and breathless. Deep down, Mark had dreaded facing Jaebum, looking him in the eyes after what had happened to their friend. He’d never learnt what could have possibly happened between Youngjae and Jaebum in the ten years that he had been gone but, from the agony in Jaebum’s voice, Mark knew the older man’s feelings had not wavered for a decade. Jaebum didn’t know Mark lay awake for hours on end, playing that night over and over in his head like some sort of twisted torture.

“Yes, it probably was.” Mark admitted, keeping his back to Jaebum. He didn’t need to see the contempt in the older man’s eyes to know it was there. “But this breakdown between us? That was all you. And Youngjae would’ve hated it.”

He left Jaebum on the sidewalk, furious and broken, and ordered the driver to take him home. That wouldn’t be the end of it; when Jaebum assumed his position of Don from his father, he would be extremely unpredictable and fuelled by grudges. But that day had not come yet and Mark would face it when it arrived.

Despite the house’s loud and boisterous volume when Mark returned home, he could feel the absence of Jackson, could see where his long black coat would be hung up on the rack and where his leather shoes would be misshapenly strewn on the floor.  There was a gap, just like when his father had first passed; a gap in the home where a loved one should be. Mark reached into his suit pocket, touching his cell phone, before shaking his head. He needed time to think on this and he had work that needed to be done, brushing past his men to his office.

As the evening sun set, Mark asked himself if he was really prepared to kill Vincent Wang. Was the ability really within him? Could he look a man in the eyes and take his life? Could he take a father from a son like what had been done to him? He really didn’t have the answers to those questions. More and more, his soul felt crushed by the weight of the oath he had sworn. He had come home to seek retribution for his father… what was stopping him?

Others had to have been working with Vincent, Mark was sure of it. The man was powerful but he wasn’t all-seeing and knowing; he’d had help with his machinations. Whose strings was he pulling? His father had mentioned multiple rats in his letters… who else had worked against his father?

He worked into the dead of night, finishing up contracts whilst debating one of the biggest decisions he’d ever make. _If only I could seek advice from my consigliere,_ Mark thought ironically to himself. He had to meet with Jackson. Letting this fester, letting it rot between them until it became incurable… he just could not let that happen.

The corded telephone on the desk rang and Mark picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Mark?”

“Jinyoung?” Mark sat up in his chair, the younger’s quivering, distressed voice raising his hackles.

“I-I need you to come to the house now. I need you, please.” Jinyoung begged before the receiver went dead.

Mark thought of all the times that Jinyoung had sent symbols to him, all the times Jinyoung had needed him, and realised that the younger man had never actually said it out loud before. This was the first time.

He remained in his chair for several beats, absorbing the shock, before jumping out of his seat and grabbing his coat from the rack. His driver was undoubtedly asleep but Mark couldn’t wait for him, he couldn’t wait for anyone, he had to go _now._

“Jun!” Mark called down the corridor for one of the guards he knew was awake, tugging his shoes on forcefully. “Where the fuck are the car keys?!”

“Here, boss.” Jun appeared in a gust of wind, presenting the Rolls Royce keys. Mark could hear noises upstairs, footsteps of those waking up at the sound of the commotion below. Snatching the keys into his hands, Mark barrelled through the front door, barking orders back to Jun standing in speechless silence in the doorway.

“Bring a car to follow me to the Park estate but discreetly. I don’t want anyone to know we’re there. Call Jackson and tell him to meet me at the Chois’ firm in an hour, I need to speak with him.”

“Yes, sir!” Jun accepted with a shout, hurrying back into the house. Mark watched through the car window as several of his men appeared at the foot of the stairs, sleepily dazed and confused, before turning the key in the ignition and peeling away from the house.

The Park estate was shrouded in darkness, not a light in a single window. His shoes crunched against the gravel, piercing the hush that hung over the estate. The wind whistled through the willow trees and Mark had the vague feeling of being watched before shrugging it off and slipping in through the back door.

The house was soundless except for the click of Mark’s footsteps across the polished tiled floor. Not the creak of a floorboard or a groan of a water pipe. Feeling his way across the wall in the darkness, Mark considered calling out for Jinyoung before stopping. Something was off; it was in the tone of Jinyoung’s voice on the phone, in the silence of the house, the black of every room. He had to find Jinyoung.

Opposite Mark, light spilled out from underneath a closed door. It was his best bet for finding Jinyoung; the only light on in the entire house. Heading towards the door, he was suddenly blinded as the entrance swung open, pouring light out into the shadowed hallway.

“Mark?”

Jinyoung stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, trying to hold his shuddering body together. Mark went to speak but his words caught on his tongue at the sight of Jinyoung’s face. Blood ran down from his forehead to his chin, his right eye was completely swollen and his nose was bleeding profusely. The way the younger man held his body, Mark could tell something was bruised, possibly even broken, probably a rib.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jinyoung, what the hell happened?”

A sob caught in Jinyoung’s throat. “It was an accident, I swear, I didn’t mean to do it.”

Mark frowned in confusion at the younger man, stepping around him into the lit office room, before stopping in his tracks. Don Park lay on the floor, hair tangled and wet, a pool of blood forming around him.

He didn’t move.

“He was so angry after the meeting because of what you said to him. He was humiliated. And you’re my friend so he took it out on me but he kept going and going…” Jinyoung shivered, tears dripping down his cheeks. It looked like the sparkles falling down the window at The Orchid. That dinner seemed so long ago now. So much had changed.

“I took it, I’m used to taking it, it was nothing out of the normal. But then he picked that up.” Jinyoung pointed to a heavy bronze ornament of a horse on the floor next to Don Park’s body, splattered in blood. “I tried to pull it out of his hands but then it hit him…”

Mark leaned down over Don Park’s body and fought the urge to spit on him. “Where’s your mother?”

“Still asleep.” Jinyoung whispered, suddenly aware of how much noise the two of them were making.

Don Park’s eyes looked back up at him, wide-open in shock or horror, and, to his surprise, Mark felt weirdly sympathetic. “Your brother?”

Jinyoung’s body was racked by another bought of shivers. “Away on business.”

“Okay.” Mark muttered to himself, rubbing his hands on his trouser pants and pushing himself up from his crouch. “Let’s move out of the room, c’mon.”

Wrapping his hands around Jinyoung’s shoulders, Mark led the younger man out of the room, closing the door behind him, hiding the gruesome image from Jinyoung’s eyes. In Mark’s arms, Jinyoung fell apart, sobbing mutedly into his shirt.

“C’mere, it’ll be alright, you’re okay, I’ve got you…”

Mark could feel Jinyoung’s trauma, the guilt practically pouring out of him, and wanted to whisk him away, far, far away. But he knew what he’d seen in that room. Don Park hadn’t been hit once in an accidental tragedy; his head had been virtually bludgeoned in.

But Mark would let Jinyoung have this secret. At least, for now.

“What’s gonna happen now?” Jinyoung asked, muffled against Mark’s chest. His swollen eyes fluttered closed and he looked so peaceful that Mark didn’t want to move.

He stroked Jinyoung’s hair back gently, needing to look at him and know he was safe. “I’m gonna handle it.”

Jinyoung looked up at Mark, brow furrowed. “But how are you gonna—”

 _“I’m going to handle it.”_ Mark cupped the younger’s cheeks in his hands, staring into his eyes. “Do you trust me? _”_

Jinyoung watched him for a moment, considering asking what the older man was going to do, before nodding, leaving the situation in Mark’s capable hands. There was nothing Jinyoung could do now; he’d already made enough of a mess.

“Go wait in the car for me, okay? Ask one of the men to take a look at your chest, we may need to take you to the hospital. I’ll take you back to the house and Mama’ll make you something nice. And tell some of the men outside to come in.” Mark instructed Jinyoung, kissing him softly on the cheek. Jinyoung managed a trembling smile, eyes twinkling with tears, and slipped out through the front door.

A few seconds later, Jun and Hyuntae slipped through the front door quietly, treading across the tiled floor softly to meet Mark at the office door.

“Through that door,” Mark knocked his knuckle gently against the office entrance, “is Don Park. He’s dead.”

The two men stared bug-eyed at Mark and Jun went to speak before thinking better of it, trusting his Don and awaiting orders.

“There was an intruder, a fight occurred and the intruder beat him over the head. Got it?” Mark ordered, boring the story into the two men with his eyes. The two of them nodded back wordlessly.

Mark opened the door. “Then, go make it happen.”

Hyuntae opened the door, heading inside, as Mark stopped Jun by his arm, pulling him closer whilst slipping a piece of paper into his hand.

“There are orders on there and a list of names. Do not question them. Do not trust anyone except a group of men of your choosing who you believe are capable. You and your men are to enact these orders once you’re finished here. Once you have completed them, let me know. You’re a capo now, Jun, don’t let me down.”

Jun nodded gravely, accepting his promotion with fiery determination, and the office door shut with a click behind him. Voices softly discussed a plan of action as Mark was, once again, plunged into the silence of the Park manor. The air seemed to still around him, waiting in anticipation for his next move. He’d joked to Jinyoung once that the younger man’s house seemed to be alive, that it had a soul and a mind of its own and saw everything that took place under its roof. Floorboards creaked innocuously and somewhere upstairs, a bathroom tap drip, drip, dripped.

Mark croaked a laugh, rupturing the silence.

“God, I hate this house.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Slipping through the back door into the kitchen, Mark could hear the murmured conversations of his men in the corridor. Questions about why the boss had taken off so suddenly in the middle of the night. For a moment, he wanted to barge through the kitchen door and yell them into silence, but not yet. Their cluelessness was an advantage. Surely, traipsing Jinyoung through the house, bloodied and shaking, what leave them with even more questions than the ones they already had.

“Sit down there.” Mark pointed at the bar stool underneath the kitchen counter. “I’ll put the kettle on and then find Mama.”

Feeling his pocket vibrating, Mark reached in and pulled out his phone. _Mama._

“Hey Mama, I was just about to look for you.”

“Finally!” Mama squealed with relief. “I’ve rung you six times already!”

Mark grimaced at his negligence; the Park manor had completely wrecked his ability to focus or think straight. “Are you home?”

“No, I’m at the hospital.” Mama answered and Mark’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“What? What happened? I’m leaving now!”

“Bubba, listen, I’m fine! It’s not me, it’s Liv.” Mama explained, voice low and soothing, a balm for Mark’s anxiety. “She’s gone into labour.”

Mark dropped into a bar stool with a thud, fear slowly being replaced by shock. It was happening. His nephew was on the way. He was about to become an uncle for the first time. It seemed like just yesterday Liv had texted him a picture of the ultrasound; that barely distinguishable shape that was growing into a human being, a living, breathing person that Mark would love and watch grow over the years. The idea of life coming into the world instead of leaving had become an almost alien concept to him. He’d lost so much that he’d forgotten what it felt like to gain.

“I…” Mark swallowed, the back of his throat aching with the urge to cry. “I have to see Jackson but I promise I’ll come right there after, okay? Tell Liv to wait for me.”

“I don’t think I can tell Liv to do anything right now unless I want my head bitten off.” Mama chuckled hoarsely, betraying how emotional she really was. “But she really wants you to be here so hurry as fast as you can, Bubba.”

“Yeah, of course. I promise.” Mark uttered, feeling a sense of urgency overcome him. He couldn’t miss this; he’d missed so much already over a decade, memories he would never have or be a part of.  Nothing in the world would get in his way of being there for his family.

The call ended and Mark placed his phone atop the counter, staring at the marble top surface in thought. He had to deal with Vincent and soon. The notion of bringing his nephew into a world where the murderer of his nephew’s grandfather was still out there, putting his life at risk, nauseated Mark. No, it was time to act, and the first person who deserved to know that was Jackson.

“What was that about?” Jinyoung asked in curiosity, hugging his arms to his chest.

Mark looked up at the younger man, a rare smile adorned on his face. “Liv is in labour.”

“Wow.” Jinyoung smiled back, relaxing his stiff, hunched shoulders and allowing Mark’s happiness to wash over him. “You’re going to be an uncle. Congrats.”

Unexpected joy blushed Mark’s cheeks a deep rouge. “I’ll have to leave soon. Jackson is probably waiting for me at the Chois’ and I need to get to the hospital as soon as possible.”

The older man began rummaging around the kitchen, removing pots and ingredients from cupboards, oblivious to Jinyoung stewing silently in his seat. Over time, the kitchen began to fill with the warm, cosy scent of hot chocolate simmering on the stove, like arms wrapping lovingly around the room.

Jinyoung’s croaking voice broke the mellow quiet. “What happens now?”

“Now…” Mark paused, stirring the pot of hot chocolate pensively, before smiling in assurance at the growingly distressed younger man. “You finish your drink and then a bed will be made for you upstairs.”

“No, I mean…” Jinyoung shook his head, his jet-black fringe brushing back and forth softly against his forehead. “Tomorrow. When everyone finds out… what’s going to happen?”

Mark couldn’t deny that the thought had not blossomed in his mind, niggling and digging and demanding an answer that would not come. The night seemed to have stopped time itself; the moon endlessly hanging in the sky, the stars painting an eternal picture. But, he knew this was not true, that this illusion would wisp away like smoke when the morning came with the harsh light of the sun.

“Tomorrow isn’t here yet.” Mark resolved, pouring the steaming hot chocolate into a chipped white mug. “But when it does get here, we’ll deal with it together.”

In a single breath, Jinyoung’s face crumbled. “I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t be _him_ , I can’t be… the Don. I thought I was ready but…”

“Hey, I wasn’t ready when I came back—” Mark attempted to assuage the younger’s fears.

Jinyoung cut off his reassurances. “No, it’s not the same, Mark. You just needed time. Look at you now! You’ve only been back for a couple of weeks and you’ve taken to it like a natural. You were born for this. I’ve lived this my entire life, every damn day, and I will _never_ be that person. It’s just not the same.”

Since the very moment they’d met, throughout the many years of their relationship, Jinyoung had never explicitly voiced his utter aversion to being his father’s successor. Mark had never really needed to hear it; he’d seen it clear as day in Jinyoung’s face, read it every time the topic had arisen. They’d never talked about it, one of a handful of topics that was never brought up between them, but Mark had known exactly _why_ Jinyoung never talked about it. Because talking about it made it real and Mark had realised long ago that Jinyoung would rather live in a fantasy than admit his greatest fear.

Mark skirted around the kitchen counter, moving towards the anxious younger man. “Well, now _you_ get to decide. For the first time in your life, the decision is yours to make. You’ve always worried what other people will think but none of that matters anymore. Finally, you can choose your future.”

“But I don’t know—” Jinyoung began, voice shrill and breathless from the mere thought of his new freedom, before Mark hushed him into silence, wrapping his arms around the younger man.

“You don’t need to know now. Make the decision when you’re ready; there’s no pressure. But it’s going to be entirely your decision and that’s what matters.”

Jinyoung lay his head upon Mark’s chest, breath escaping his chest in a calming sigh, and the two remained embraced, suspended in time, even if for just a moment. Mark brushed Jinyoung’s hair back from his face and could see the toll the events of the night had taken on him; bloodshot eyes and worryingly pale complexion. He pressed a kiss upon his forehead, into his skin, and felt the shiver that ran through the younger man’s body.

Jinyoung looked up at him, blinking drearily, on the edge of exhaustion. “Can I stay here for a while?”

“You can stay here for as long as you want.” Mark murmured, holding Jinyoung closer as if he could keep him there by sheer will alone. “I just need to ask one thing of you.”

The younger man nodded, chin brushing lightly against Mark’s shirt.

“I’m going to do something soon.” Mark divulged, hearing the booming sound of certainty in his head. “Something that will upset a lot of people. Something that I can’t… come back from.”

Jinyoung watched Mark carefully, understanding dawning in his dark eyes. “You’re going to war, aren’t you?”

Mark gave no answer; the inevitability of what was to come sat between them, a box yet unopened.

“Everything is going to change.” Mark continued, skirting the subject. “And I just need to know that, no matter what happens, you’ll stand by me. Because I don’t think I can do this without you, Jinyoung.”

To ask for an oath of loyalty from a rival family member, the son of an adversary, an enemy, was quite unprecedented. Mark had asked Jinyoung once before, only once, ten years ago with the threat of jail-time hanging over his head like a guillotine. The answer he’d received had sent him across the Pacific Ocean.

The memory of their conversation at The Orchid came back to Mark in painful clarity.

_“I’m not against you, Mark.”_

_“But you’re not with me either.”_

At that dinner table, Mark had been too afraid to ask for loyalty; he’d simply asked for honesty from the young man who he considered to be the most important person in the world to him. Omertà had sat at the table with them like an unwanted third guest, tainting the possibility of a Park and a Tuan ever being able to be on the same side. Things were different now, a whole night had changed that, but the fear, the looming sense of rejection, still twisted Mark’s gut.

Jinyoung bit his lip, his trembling hands fidgeting with the edges of Mark’s shirt, before he looked up at the older man, eyes shining with teary conviction. “Mark, whatever you decide to do… I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He could feel Jinyoung pressed against him, chest to chest, racing heartbeats tripping over themselves like clumsy kids, they were still so _young._ He would always be that kid around Jinyoung; the infatuated fool who had never really been good at anything except loving his best friend.

Mark bent towards him, the tips of their noses tickling against each other, and Jinyoung giggled breathlessly. It was so easy, the falling, falling towards Jinyoung, as easy as falling asleep even. But this time, Mark didn’t feel like he was falling. Instead, he was rising. Light, so light, almost buoyant, riding the wave of his feelings for the man before him, floating on his emotions, like all the weight of the world had finally been lifted.

Their lips met, certainly not for the first time and, Mark hoped, never for the last. He steadied the wavering Jinyoung against him, hand pressed into his back, heat sinking into the younger’s shirt. They clung to each other, like lifelines, hands gripped tight. Jinyoung’s mouth was warm, he was always so warm, and his lips moved softly against his, delicately, like he was afraid to break Mark. Afraid to break Mark again.

Mark pulled away, brushing his thumb over Jinyoung’s flushed cheek, and watched the younger pant shallowly, eyes glazed. He committed the sight to memory, burned it into his mind until he could even see it when he closed his eyes.

“I have to go. Get some sleep, okay?” Mark whispered, reluctantly shattering the moment. He couldn’t linger any longer in the heat of Jinyoung’s arms, much to his displeasure.

Detaching himself from Mark’s embrace, Jinyoung nodded languidly, understanding that this would be one of many times that Mark would have to leave him for his work.

Grabbing his phone from the kitchen counter, Mark headed for the front door before Jinyoung called out his name. He turned back to the younger man, a shadowy silhouette in the middle of the kitchen and yet, somehow, still glowing, and smiled. “Yeah?”

Jinyoung’s eyebrows furrowed, indecisiveness clouding his face. “I just… I…”

Mark’s heart jumped. He knew; knew the words before they even left Jinyoung’s mouth.

“I’ll wait.”

Jinyoung stopped in his tracks, mouth hung open with three words unspoken, before he beamed so brightly at Mark that the entire room seemed to light up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mark whispered, suddenly aware of the hush that had fallen over the house, and Jinyoung nodded back wordlessly, cupping his mug of hot chocolate in his hands, his eyes closing serenely. He looked, for the first time since Mark had returned to Seoul, like he was truly at home.

Pulling the back door closed noiselessly, Mark darted around the side of the house and returned to the car, pressed for time to meet Jackson and reach the hospital in time.

The shack of Choi Construction Firm stood modestly in the middle of the site, windows gloomy and unlit. Mark peered through the glass, searching for the shape of Jackson inside whilst rummaging for the front door key in his pockets. Deep within the pitch-black room, a stack of files crashed to the floor. Pausing his search, Mark tested the door handle and the entryway swung open slowly, moonlight pouring into the dusty office.

Mark stepped over the threshold, trying the light switch to find the electricity off. “Jackson?”

The door to the other room, the money handling area that Mark had never seen inside, was hanging open, almost off its hinges. No light reached its windowless interior and Mark tried to peer into the sheer blackness. A floorboard creaked. He heard the exhalation of breath. 

“Jacks?”  

A heavy object struck Mark across the head and, just like that, the black was everywhere.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Coming to was excruciating; Mark’s vision swam in circles so violently that he wished he’d never woken up. Blurs and hazes smeared his sight, impressions that didn’t make sense, shapes that confused Mark’s lethargic, incapacitated brain. He felt on the edge of something, like he was tilting over into nothingness. The wind roared through his hair and he could feel the cold bite of metal against his arms and legs.

Groaning in discomfort, Mark reached his left hand up to hold his head, hold the thumping pain in, and felt his hand come away wet and sticky. Gradually, his ears stopped ringing incessantly and the world came back together in fractured pieces. He attempted to move his right hand but felt it jerk restrictedly, shackled to a metallic-like pole. Mark’s focus returned with agonisingly sharp clarity and he looked down.

At first, it was so dark that Mark could barely see a thing and he wondered if he actually _had_ woken up or if this was all a concussion-induced dream. However, slowly but surely, tiny outlines began to form below; roads, cars, people so miniscule that Mark couldn’t even make out the most basic of features and _holy shit_ he was so high up he could barely even see the building that was Chois’ Construction Firm anymore. Mark felt the tower crane shift ever so faintly and his stomach turned.

“It’s a long way down.”

Mark nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the voice behind him, body sliding against the metal surface under him as he turned.

“But I’m afraid we’re out of options, Mark.”

Emerging from shadow, Mark’s nightmare materialised before his eyes. “You… how….”

“Unfortunately, Jackson missed your call.” Vincent divulged, rolling up the sleeves of his starched-white shirt, revealing the barely-contained strength in the strain of his arm muscles. “However, I assured your men that I would meet with you in my son’s absence.”

 _Fuck,_ Mark swore at his idiotic mistake, _why didn’t I tell the men about Vincent? They still trust the old underboss._

The crane creaked ominously and Mark scrabbled to gain purchase on the slippery steel, feeling his world tilt toward a fathomless edge. He continued to tug his right hand free from the cuffs restraining it but to no avail. Vincent watched him struggle with the self-assured poise of an animal that knew it had trapped its prey, enjoying the sight of its game completely at its mercy.

“Why are you doing this?” Mark demanded, craving the truth, yearning to know why his life had been turned upside down by a man he had trusted all his life; his best friend’s father.

“I warned you.” Vincent loomed over the younger man, the grey streak in his hair shining in the moonlight. “You should’ve never come back here, Mark.”

The nameless man with the knife took shape in front of Mark as if the memory was replaying in live time.

_“I’m the messenger.”_

_“You’re on borrowed time, Tuan.”_

He had sworn to the blade and the bullet when he’d sworn Omertà, too naïve and inept to predict the damage the two would enact upon his life, his family, his friends.

“And let you ruin everything my father built?” Mark snapped back, snorting a bitter laugh. “No chance. I’d rather die than let you take what belongs to my family.”

Vincent grinned, empty and void of feeling, and raised his fist. “That can be arranged.” 

The repetitive rain of fists against the side of Mark’s head blackened his vision to the point that he was sure of only one thing; if he passed out now, he’d never wake up again. Smeared vision evolved from black to red as blood ran down into Mark’s eyes from an open head wound.

“I trusted you.” Mark mumbled unintelligibly, barely about to string the words together, his mouth soft and cushioned as if filled with cotton. “I trusted your advice… I trusted you with Youngjae…”

“A sad affair, I have to admit.” Vincent paused his beating, examining his bloodied fist with detached disinterest. “I never meant for the kid to get caught in the crossfire but you boys never learnt to stay out of the way. Apart from Bambam; he learnt his place at Silk. All is fair, as they say.”

Mark coughed out a laugh, blood spattering from his mouth across the steel. Of course the club had been Vincent’s idea; he’d probably manipulated Tony so subtly into buying the club that the consigliere had never even noticed.  

Mark gazed up at Vincent, squinting through thick, blood-clumped eyelashes. “Introducing the Yakuza into the game? That’s low, even for you, Vincent.”

The older man shrugged, unaffected by the shots at his dignity. “I needed the manpower and financial support. Don’t worry, I’ll put them back in their place once I’m Don.”

In that moment, Mark finally understood that he would never get the closure he wanted from Vincent. There would be no remorse, no shame, no explanation that would suffice. How could he possibly gain resolution from a man who would stop at nothing to see his family in ruin? There would be no end until one of them was gone. Nothing Vincent could ever do would heal the gaping hole in Mark’s chest; Mark would have to heal that himself.

Mark still felt like he didn’t have the full picture. “How are you possibly going to convince the family to support you? What about the other families? They’ll go to war with you for what you’ve done.”

Vincent tilted his head and gave a patronising grin. “You think Don Park didn’t know? That Don Im didn’t know? I had their _support_.”

Mark tried not to be surprised; he’d prepared to face off with at least one of the Dons since he’d returned home. They had been the men his mother had originally warned him about. _The Dons are out for blood and if they couldn’t get your father, they’ll try and get you._ She’d been right all along, just not in the way Mark had expected. They _had_ got to his father and, all this time, through Vincent Wang, the man Mark had known since the moment he’d been born, they’d got to him too.

“The men from the old days, the good days… they know I’m the right ruler for the family.” Vincent continued, pouring salt into the wound. “Frank, Kang, Juheon Guns, Angelo, Haseon… half of the family will back my confirmation as Don and the rest will fall in line. You don’t know your own men, Mark.”

It hurt; more than any punch, more than any wound, more than a shot to the chest, to know that he had failed to change the minds of some of his father’s most loyal men. That everything he had sacrificed; his life in L.A., Sammy, _Youngjae_ , had possibly been in vain. An iron resolve solidified in Mark’s chest. If they were never going to see him as anything more than Don Tuan’s incompetent son then he didn’t need them. He had nothing to prove anymore. He knew exactly who he was, more certain in that instant than ever before in his life. He threw the boy Mark Tuan off the side of the crane, watched him fall to the ground, and let Don Mark Tuan take over.

Wiping the blood from his eyes, he shook his head at Vincent, letting the image of the hero he had admired for all of his childhood crumble before him. “After everything my father did for you, everything he gave you…”

Vincent rushed at him, practically foaming at the mouth. “Your father took _everything_ from me… so I took everything from him. And now, I’m going to take everything from you, too.”

The punching continued; crumpling Mark’s body against the metal pipe, blowing the air out of his lungs, almost collapsing Mark’s diaphragm. Fire burned through his body; adrenaline, blood, bile, he couldn’t really tell. Oxygen became a precious rarity as he wheezed and gasped until he emptied his stomach from sheer exhaustion over the edge of the crane.

Attempting to raise his head but finding no energy to do so, Mark rested his chin against his shoulder, panting shallowly. “What… are you gonna do… beat me to death?”

“No, oh no…” Vincent shook his head, wiping the open cuts on his knuckles against Mark’s shirt. “No, you fell.”

The wind shrieked through the gaps in the crane.

“Well, you jumped, to be more accurate.” Vincent clarified, weaving the story for its victim. “The pressure of living up to your father’s name was just too much for you. Absolutely terrible; a heart-breaking story. You couldn’t bear the burden anymore... so you climbed up the crane… and you jumped.”

Reaching into his pocket, Vincent removed a small, silver key and moved to unlock Mark’s shackles before pausing, a thought occurring to him, and smacking Mark across the head once more. “Don’t need you fighting back, do we?”

A click sounded above Mark’s head and, at last, his right hand slumped into his lap, chalk white from lack of blood-flow. Before he could gain the chance to shake life back into his hand, Vincent seized Mark by his hair, dragging him across the metal platform. The wind seemed to be screaming all around them, pushing back against what was about to happen.

“Don’t do this…” Mark gasped out, struggling to catch a breath. “Think what this will do to Mama… to Jackson…”

“I’ll protect Seoyeon.” Vincent promised, as if his assurances were of any comfort to Mark. “Like I always have, like I was meant to do for the rest of our lives. In time, Jackson will come to understand why I had to do this.”

The edge of the crane drew closer and closer, a drop into nothingness, a pit of black. Scrambling backwards was fruitless; Vincent’s grip in Mark’s hair was unyielding. There was nowhere he could go but forward, forward towards the drop.

The older man paused for a moment, looking down at Mark like a father disappointed in his son. “I don’t want to do this, Mark. You were such a good kid.”

As a last taunt at his mortality, Vincent dangled Mark’s head over the edge of the crane, presenting him with the ending of his story. The wind blew up at Mark, fluttering his hair out of his eyes, giving him perfect sight of the bottom, the ground that seemed so far away now but would appear before him in a second once he fell. Footsteps clattered behind the two men up the metal staircase.

He would never be able to kill Vincent, Mark realised with a stone-cold certainty. He couldn’t take a father from a son, no matter what the man had done to him. Despite the amount of moral twisting he’d done since returning to Seoul, that just wasn’t in a single fiber of his being. And, by finally learning that about himself, Mark knew he could die with his dignity.

 “I’m not a kid anymore.” Mark corrected Vincent solemnly, possessed with an unearthly confidence that only manifested in a man’s last moments. “I’m the Don.”

Air rushed up at him, a moment suspended in time and, with eyes closed, Mark swore he was flying.

A scuffle. A grunt. A yell.

Stillness. Gasp. Breath. Exhale.

Mark opened his eyes.

“Brother?”

Jackson slumped down next to Mark, air rushing out of his body until he was completely empty, his mouth hung open in dumbstruck denial. Mark looked around them for Vincent, for Mr Wang, Jackson’s father, but it was just the two young men and the wind.

“He was…” Jackson murmured breathlessly, sagged against the metal, face turning grey. “He was going to…”

Mark didn’t need to look over the edge, look down the hundreds of feet, to see what was at the bottom. He knew. He didn’t need to see.

He shivered, body racked with shock. “You came.”

Jackson stared at him for a long amount of time, unable to process or comprehend the words Mark had just spoken, or the whole situation really, before he shook his head at Mark’s oblivious stupidity. “Of course I did. I promised I would. I swore.”

_“I’m here, I’m always going to be here and we’re going to be okay. I promise to find who did this, I promise it. I swear on Omertà.”_

There was no time for Mark to absorb what had just occurred because he could see that _Jackson_ was beginning to absorb what had just occurred. A shadow passed over his face, so dark and unrecognisable that Mark, for the first time in his life, feared his best friend. The shadow came and left, Mark wishing to never see it again, and, in its place, an almighty grief struck, shattering Jackson entirely.

“Oh my God, what did I just do? I just… oh God!”

For a while, Mark couldn’t find the words to say. What words were sufficient enough to comfort a son who had just lost his protector, his mentor, his hero? No one had ever really known what to say when it had happened to him just those few months ago. However, it had always been Jackson who was most wise with words.

Mark gripped his best friend’s shoulder, watching the break of early morning sunlight over the horizon as the two sat together at the top of the tower crane.

“We haven’t come to the end of the road yet, brother. Hold fast.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I would like to welcome all those in attendance of today’s baptism, especially the parents and the godparents. We rejoice in the welcoming of this child as a gift from God, the source of all life, and bring this child into the light of Christ.”

_“Good morning Seoul, it is September 20 th, 9:30am and you are joining HTN News with the morning headlines.”_

“Parents, what name do you give this child?”

“Michael Richard Tuan.”

_“In a night of ruthless brutality, several suspected mob members across the city were violently executed in their homes and places of business.”_

“You have asked to have your child baptised.  In doing so you are accepting the responsibility of training him in the practise of the faith.  It will be your duty to bring him up to keep God’s commandments as Christ taught us, by loving God and our neighbour.  Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?”

“We do.”

_“At approximately 7 o’clock this morning, Vincent Wang, assumed underboss of the late alleged mob boss Richard Tuan, was found dead at Chois’ Construction Firm in Central Seoul. Police believe the 54-year-old man fell from one of the construction site’s cranes, however, they have not ruled out foul play.”_

“Mark Tuan, you have been chosen as the godfather of Michael Richard Tuan. Are you ready to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christian parents?”

“I am.”

 _“The deaths of several alleged associates of the late Richard Tuan have also been determined by coroners as foul play or murder. Frank Yu, Kang Minseon, Sung Juheon ‘Guns’_ , _Angelo Lee,_ _Goo Haseon and numerous other suspected members of the Tuan crime family were found dead in what police believe to be a ‘cleansing of the family tree’.”_

“Mark, do you believe in God, the Father almighty, the creator of heaven and earth?”

_“Horrific scenes of carnage greeted police as they began to gather evidence for their investigations. They are also reaching out to the public for information or eyewitnesses who potentially saw the unknown assailants. One anonymous police official called it ‘a bloodbath’”._

“I do.”

“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord?”

_“In possible related killings, Im Sungho and Park Jongsoo, alleged Dons of the Im and Park crime families, were likewise found dead in their homes. Authorities believe that Park Jongsoo was murdered by an intruder, however, details around Im Sungho’s murder are still unclear.”_

“I do.”

“Do you believe in the Holy Ghost and the Holy Catholic Church?”

_“Sources say the Four Families are in crisis talks and war on the streets could potentially be ‘days away’ if a resolution is not reached.”_

“I do.”

_“Similarly, chaos has erupted on the streets of Tokyo as several members of the Hayakawa syndicate of the Yakuza were murdered in a shoot-out at a beer hall in the heart of the city centre. The culprits, believed to be, as of now, unidentified Korean men, were also killed in the shooting. Tokyo police are working in co-operation with Seoul authorities on the assumption that the killings that occurred in both capitals are related.”_

“Mark, do you renounce Satan?”

_“According to reports, the son of the late Richard Tuan, Mark Tuan, officially assumed the title of Don of the Tuan family in an early morning confirmation. The family were reached for comment but have not responded.”_

“I do.”

“Do you renounce all of his works?”

_“It is believed that the past night’s slayings are the greatest number of mob-related killings in a single night since the 1942 Christmas Murders.”_

“Do you renounce all of his empty promises?”

_“No suspects have been identified, however, there is no denying that the assassination of his enemies both within and outside of his family has cemented Mark Tuan’s position as the most powerful man in Seoul.”_

“I do. I do renounce him.”

“Mark Tuan, go in peace and may the Lord be with you.”

“ _The total death count has not been officially determined yet but police are already beginning to call the night’s events the Omertà Massacre.”_

“Amen.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Early start, boss?”

Mark turned from the window, coffee mug in hand, and gave a wry smile. “No rest for the wicked, Jun.”

Cheerful, boisterous conversation sounded from the kitchen through the open office door and the house felt alive, so _alive,_ that Mark had to close his eyes and breathe it all in.

The rainclouds had finally cleared up in the early hours of the morning. The sun had come out.

Mark grinned.

“I’ve picked up today’s mail for you. If you need anything else, call for me.” Jun displayed the letters and one parcel across the desk and with a swift, almost unnoticeable, kiss to Mark’s free hand, Jun swept out of the room, the door clicking quietly closed behind him.

Smoke enfolded around Mark, drifting from the lone cigarette sitting in a glass ashtray. In recent days, he'd begun to like lighting cigarettes and letting them burn, filling the room with the smell of tobacco that he loved so much. He didn’t feel alone when the tobacco burned. It was the scent of his father, ever watching, always there, the closest Mark could get to feeling his presence.

Knuckles knocked against the door and Mark called the visitor in.

“Am I allowed to see the boss?”

Mark rolled his eyes, unable to bite down a grin. “Shut up, you goomba. Come in, you’re letting the smoke out.”

Slipping through the office door, Jinyoung joined Mark in front of the window, a similar coffee mug in hand. The younger man had stayed at the Tuan household for the whole week after the incident at the Park estate, however, in the back of his mind, he knew he had to return home and face his family at some point.

Mark ran his hand over Jinyoung’s cheek, still rosy from sleep. “Did you speak to your brother already?”

“He called a few minutes ago.” Jinyoung answered, his eyes fluttering closed at Mark’s touch. “His confirmation is tonight. He thinks me attending would be… distasteful.”

News that Park Jinyoung had relinquished the title of Don to his younger brother, the second son, had spread like wildfire through the community. His association with Mark, the son who had run away and returned to become the most powerful man in the city, was immediately brought into question but Mark refused to entertain the whispers. He didn’t care anymore. Let them think what they want to think; he finally had Jinyoung, both of them on the same side instead of looking at each other over the fence, and that was all that mattered to him.

Mark wrapped his arm around Jinyoung’s shoulder, pulling the younger man against his chest. “They’ll come to understand. You’re family, at the end of the day.”

“He asked if I’d pledged allegiance to you. If I’d sworn Omertà to you and the family.” Jinyoung uttered quietly against Mark’s chest. “I… I didn’t know how to answer him.”

It was still up in the air; whether Jinyoung wanted to swear himself entirely to the Tuans or act as more of an intermediary between his family and Mark’s. Jinyoung had come to realise that the years of being unable to choose anything about his life had left him incredibly indecisive. Mark understood and would give the younger man as much time as he needed, however, they were heading into treacherous times.

Mark placed his coffee mug down and began ripping open letters. “The meeting went to shit yesterday.”

Jinyoung’s wince was an understatement; the fragile armistice between the Four Families was in tatters. Since last week’s events, the Four Families had met every single evening with their consiglieres desperately trying to settle the issues that had exploded amongst the four factions, however, progress was absent and relations were beginning to regress instead of improve.

“You think there’s any possibility?” Jinyoung asked with a blooming optimism that Mark had sorely missed in the younger man. The shackles were off, the cage had been opened and Mark finally could watch Jinyoung take his first timid steps out into the world as the person he was always meant to be. It was the steady buoy he held onto in the middle of the current storm.

Mark shrugged his shoulders, resigned to the undeniable truth. “Jackson’s working his ass off and Yugyeom and the Kims are open to anything at this point but…”

Mark didn’t need to say his name, the name of the person vehemently refusing to cooperate, but Jinyoung knew who he meant.

“How is he, by the way?” Jinyoung switched topics. “Jackson? He’s been oddly kind to me lately.”

Mark chuckled at the thought, quietly proud of his friend for sucking up his pride and getting along with the person he had hated for a decade just for him. The chuckle died out as Jackson’s wellbeing came to the forefront of his thoughts.

“He has his good days and his bad. I hear him sometimes; wondering the house in the early hours of the morning. He doesn’t sleep much anymore. He hasn’t gone home yet either, he says… he just can’t. There’s a lot he’s gotta work through but… he’s family and we’ll pull him through.”  

Jinyoung nodded firmly, vowing to himself that no matter what issues had come between he and Jackson, they were in the past. Both of them had lost their fathers in the same week; they, at least, had something in common that they could bond through and heal together.

"Have you heard from the Yakuza?" Jinyoung bit at his thumbnail nervously. "I've tried contacting Sayuri but she refuses to speak to me."

"No. Not yet." Mark sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable backlash from his Japanese counterparts. "I broke my promise. They've lost a lot of men. It's only a matter of time before..."

Mark didn't need to finish the sentence; Jinyoung was well familiar with the Yakuza when they felt slighted. 

“Make sure you’re dressed in an hour, we’re going for brunch with Liv. She’s bringing Michael with her.” Mark told Jinyoung, already brightening up at the thought of seeing his nephew. As soon as Mark had burst through the delivery room doors and laid eyes on the tiny baby in his sister’s arms, he knew he had never felt a love like it in his life. Holding his nephew, the new life in his family who had brought so much joy after so much sorrow, Mark had to wonder how he had ever doubted his decision to come home.

Using a sharp letter opener, Mark ripped through the tape on the box that had been delivered and flipped open the lid. He stilled at the sight of the contents.

Jinyoung, perturbed by Mark’s reaction, glanced over the older man’s shoulder into the box. “What is it—oh…”

A single black rose on a bed of white tissue paper glared up at the two men, almost mocking them, threatening them with its mere appearance. Mark moved to touch the menacing flower but, feeling like an evil omen emanated from its dark petals, retracted his fingers back carefully.

Jinyoung gripped Mark’s arm, squeezing the significance of what they were staring at into his bones. “Mark, that’s…”

“I know.”

Cigarette smoke wafted over the rose, obscuring it from view for a moment, but it couldn’t hide the truth from Mark. It was a declaration of war.

Jinyoung touched the box warily, careful to avoid the rose. “Is there a name?”

“I don’t need to see a name.” Mark pushed the box backwards, pushed the rose out of his view. “I know exactly who it’s from.”

The two of them stood in silence, trying to avoid glancing at the parcel that had crashed into their lives and altered their worlds completely. Aside from outright begging, Mark and Jackson had suggested every offer or scenario they could think of to mollify Jaebum and the Im family. However, nothing had been good enough and negotiations had descended into a chaotic storm of arguments and threats. So far from the relationship they’d had ten years ago, the relationship they’d had even when Mark had returned. In truth, sitting across the negotiation table from Jaebum, Mark couldn’t recognise the man he saw.

“Why is he doing this?” Jinyoung whispered, suddenly afraid to break the ominous hush that had fallen over the office.

“He’s exactly where I was when I got back.” Mark explained, understanding Jaebum’s headspace in that moment more than any other person in the world. “He has to assert his authority immediately. His men are probably demanding justice for Don Im; justice through blood, I suspect. Jaebum can’t wait on discussions and negotiations. He has to act or he’ll be seen as weak. He always hated being seen as weak.”

Jinyoung chewed at his bottom lip, forcing himself to suppress the question burning in his chest, before bursting out. “I know in this lifestyle you become so acquainted with lying that it becomes second nature and I would never want to ask too much of you but…”

The younger man halted mid-sentence, strangled by what he desperately needed to know but was so terrified to ask, before sucking in a breath of conviction. “This one time, I need you to be honest with me. Please. Tell me the truth.”

Mark nodded for Jinyoung to continue.

The younger man’s face grew pale as he debated for the last time whether to ask his question or not before resolving himself to needing the truth.

“Did you have Jaebum’s father killed?”

The question sat between them for several deadly silent beats, stewing in the smoke of the room. Jinyoung had seen the news, hard heard about the murders that had occurred the same night as his father’s death. The Omertà Massacre. Mark looked away from Jinyoung, out into the garden, his face unreadable as he watched a group of grey clouds cover the sun, darkening the office. Silence continued to reign over the room and Jinyoung’s stomach roiled, his eyes begging Mark for an answer. Finally, the older man turned back from the window to face Jinyoung. An inscrutable figure, he looked suddenly so far from Jinyoung that the younger wanted to reach out and touch him to make sure he was actually there.

Mark’s voice was hoarse, almost gravelly, when he eventually answered.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

Jinyoung exhaled in relief, not quite knowing what he’d expected but pleased with the answer. “I never thought… I didn’t want to accuse you and… I’m glad.”

Mark simply nodded and returned to drinking his coffee.  Jinyoung couldn’t tell whether the unintentional accusation had stung him or not but he didn’t want to continue pulling at the scab. Honesty between each other was one of the only things they had left that could be treasured. Jinyoung wished he could persuade Jaebum to see, persuade him to understand, but the older man was too far gone, the younger man could tell.

Jinyoung could admit that, years ago, he’d had some sort of hold, some sort of sway over Jaebum. The two were more similar than either liked to admit. Calculating, shrewd and experts at manipulation, they’d made quite the pair during their early years in their respective families, resulting in a healthy relationship between the Ims and the Parks. They’d worked together at one point, they’d been… but Mark didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know anything about the years before he’d come home because those years didn’t matter anymore. Only Mark mattered, Jinyoung determined. He didn’t need to know.

“What do we do now?” Jinyoung asked tensely, already picturing the violent future ahead of them.

Mark quirked an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes, we.” Jinyoung retorted, rolling his eyes.

“Well, we call a meeting.” Mark decided, arranging the next few days in his head. “Get Jackson and Bambam here, start discussing strategy. We take one day at a time.”  

War with the Dons had been simple; they were a definable enemy, undoubtedly against Mark, working towards his downfall. Even Vincent Wang had revealed his cards and made it easy for Mark to cut all ties with him. But war with Jaebum, war with someone Mark had once called a friend, was too complex too define, too intricately tangled with the past, with secrets, with lies. They knew each other’s strengths, each other’s weaknesses. It would be a dirty battle. But, Mark was ready. He’d been at war since the day he’d stepped off the plane. It was the only thing he knew.

Mark was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed Jinyoung’s announcement.

“I know what one thing I want from you.”

The older man turned completely from the window, smiling amusedly at the strange declaration. “What?”

“The deal we made before the Yakuza meeting.” Jinyoung clarified, his eyes glimmering with an indecipherable look.

“Oh… yeah, I remember.” Mark recalled, eyebrows scrunching together as he wondered where exactly Jinyoung was going with this. “So… what is it? What do you want?”

Sunlight spilled into the office as the grey clouds dispersed, freeing the morning sun to shine in all its glory. Jinyoung’s eyes sparkled, reflecting the light, and the younger man smiled tenderly.

“Marry me.”

Every sound in the entire house died away, leaving Mark gaping open-mouthed at Jinyoung.

“What?” The older man blurted out, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Not today.” Jinyoung continued, his smile blooming into a radiant beam, incapable of containing his pure happiness. “Not this month, maybe not even this year, but… someday… marry me.”

All of the planning, all of the arrangements Mark had made over the next few days, even over the next few months, fell apart at that single proposal. The thought had never occurred to him, never seemed possible. So much had divided them, kept them apart that the notion of them coming together wholly, one union, bound to each other for life… it moved Mark beyond compare. Meetings appointments, dealings… what was it all for if he couldn’t share the rest of his life with Jinyoung?

“I…” Mark stuttered, laughing breathlessly before wiping surprised tears from his eyes. “Are… are we gonna tell anyone?”

Gliding across the room, Jinyoung wrapped his arms around Mark’s neck, smoothing his thumb over Mark’s cheek, wiping away the tears just as Mark had done for the younger man all those weeks ago in his kitchen, promising not to make Jinyoung cry anymore. Promising to make him smile.

“No… not yet.” Jinyoung shook his head, brushing his lips against Mark’s. “Let’s keep it between us.”

The two of them grinned, united in one more part of their lives that they were hiding. Mark hoped it wouldn’t have to be long.

He guessed it would just have to be one more secret.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! that's the end of Omertà! I can't believe it, i'm gonna miss this story so much :( sooooo, for the last time, what do you think? a few of you guessed correctly that it was Vincent! and a few of you guessed that some of the Dons were in on it as well yall are a clever bunch heheheh what do you think the future holds for the boys? mark and jinyoung engaged, jackson struggling after his father's death, mark and jaebum at war... so much drama! I'm not thinking of writing a sequel right now but that could change in the future! this story has been nearly a year and a half in the process so i'll definitely be taking a break after this but i've already been brainstorming some other ideas for my next fic. hopefully that wont take a year lmao! 
> 
> again, thank you so so so much for coming and reading every week, your kudos and for your detailed comments that have brought me so much joy to read. i love knowing that people have been invested in my story, it's meant the world to me. hopefully i'll see you here for my next story! until then!

**Author's Note:**

> So! There's the first chapter! Please let me know what you think, what you loved or what you felt meh about. And, most of all, let me know your theories of who you think Don Tuan's murderer is heheheh #WhoKilledDonTuan
> 
> I'm mostly done with this work so I'll attempt to post an update every week :-) 
> 
> Until then! 
> 
> slang definitions 
> 
> Don - the head of the Family, the boss  
> Sottocapo - the underboss, the second in command  
> Capo - ranked mob member, heads a 'crew' of soldiers, under the sottocapo in the family hierarchy  
> Consigliere - the Family adviser, consulted on all decisions, resolves Family disputes  
> Button - a member of the Family, a wiseguy  
> Cugine - a young toughguy looking to be 'made'


End file.
